The Sorrowful Tale of Miss Kitty Fantastico
by Molossus
Summary: Now complete! The Sunnydale version of a Victorian morality play. A Spike Dawn friendship. The summer after Buffy dies, Spike wants to get Dawn something special for her birthday.
1. Default Chapter

TITLE: THE SORROWFUL TALE OF MISS KITTY FANTASTICO 1/?

Author: Molossus

Rating: PG overall

Archive: Anywhere, just let me know so that I can do the Snoopy dance.

Summary: A small tale wherein we explore the circumstances and events surrounding the disappearance of Miss Kitty Fantastico. Spike/Dawn friendship.

Disclaimer: Joss Whedon and ME own the universe that Spike adorns. I just worship there.

Note: I want to thank my beta Jenny for helping me work the snarls out of the twisted braid I have woven here. My muse wouldn't know what to do without her. Any mistakes are mine, she probably told me to take them out and I was too stubborn to do it.

Email: 

CHAPTER 1

The widely held belief is that Miss Kitty Fantastico is dead. Not surprising since even her most nearest and dearest believe it to be so and have widely lamented the fact. In truth, she now lives a life of ease despite her humiliation at bearing the current name of Stripe. Her desperation to leave the vicinity of the Hellmouth, despite her affection for those worthies Miss Willow Rosenberg and Miss Tara MacClay, can better be understood if one has knowledge of the players and the setting in which her drama played out.

Miss Rosenberg and Miss MacClay had little to do with the climax of Miss Kitty's adventure, being more involved in its beginning. Maintaining co-custody after rescuing the infant Miss Kitty from the clutches of the Humane society, they provided ample bosoms to be pressed to, and kisses and the other necessities that make life especially worth living. Unfortunately, as relationships often do, the fabric of theirs began to fray. As they grew further and further apart Miss Kitty fell through the weave, not abandoned but frequently overlooked and neglected.

More and more often in these lonely and desolate days she began finding a companion in one Miss Dawn Summers, a key actor in this play. Miss Dawn was at that time of life when she was beginning to unfold like a flower but as is often the case with youth, her development was irregular. While at one moment she was grace and perception, at the very next she was the personification of clumsy and dim-witted. To be colloquial, young Dawn was a spaz with two left feet. Nonetheless she held dear to her budding breast a burning desire to be held capable of adult responsibilities for which she was in no way competent. This yearning held the seed of Miss Kitty's disaster, and the seed was watered by the unwitting disregard she was given by the adults that surrounded her.

As the day of Miss Kitty's downfall approached, events were set in motion by one Mr. Spike of Restfield cemetery. The main protagonist in our tale, Mr. Spike was, in many ways like Miss Dawn, also victim to a period of growth, not physical but mental and moral. His evolution was an unexpected occurrence that often left him stumbling and reaching to grasp at dreams that melted away at his merest touch. This, if not the most important, is the most amazing element of our tale, for Mr. Spike was a vampire - a breed not given to growth in matters other than bloodshed and mayhem. Unlike Miss Dawn who was yet growing into her competence, Mr. Spike was abandoning his field of proficiency and attempting to learn new skills. Like Miss Dawn, he was held in disregard and was given no assistance, no teaching, no commendations by which he could measure his progress. Uncertain and often misled, Spike would begin his course with the most noble of intentions. Once committed to action however he lacked the concepts that would allow him to surmount obstacles in a way consistent with the morality he now wished to pursue. Trapped in such a situation, he would fall back into the competencies that had served him well during his evil past - cheating, lying, theft and where possible, violence - hoping that the ends would justify the means. Alas, seldom is such the case, and thus was Mr. Spike the unwitting means by which Miss Kitty Fantastico was given a new life.

Before we further remove the concealing curtain, we must warn that while Miss Kitty flourishes amongst the love of new companions, a cat did indeed die this day. Although young and fluffy and to all outward appearances, healthy this unfortunate creature was the possessor of an enlarged and feeble heart. Her departure from this veil was inevitable and although it was perhaps hastened by the events of the day, it was in no way caused by it. The poor kitten was unremarkable except that in appearance she bore a resemblance to our very own Miss Kitty Fantastico.

If our readers have not been discouraged by this sad digression from the throughline of our story then we shall proceed to the middle of the tale.

TBC...


	2. Chapter 2

Title: The Sorrowful Tale Of Miss Kitty Fantastico 2/?

Author: Molossus

Rating: PG overall

Archive: Anywhere, just let me know so that I can do the Snoopy dance.

Summary: A small tale wherein we explore the circumstances and events surrounding the disappearance of Miss Kitty Fantastico. Spike/Dawn friendship.

Disclaimer: Joss Whedon and ME own the universe that Spike adorns. I just worship there.

Note: I want to thank my beta Jenny for helping me work the snarls out of the twisted braid I have woven here. My muse wouldn't know what to do without her. Any mistakes are mine, she probably told me to take them out and I was too stubborn to do it.

Email: 

Previously: Miss Kitty Fantastico is not dead despite the fact that those nearest and dearest believe her to be. We introduced the characters in the story.

CHAPTER 2

We have mentioned that Miss Dawn is a key actor in this play. In fact, she is KEY to many things Universal, and bears the distinction of being concurrently three ages at once. To elucidate, as a universal being of energy she is so old as to be timeless, but at the instance of our story her physical human existence measures less than the span of one year. This is another story altogether and is important here only in the weight that it gives to her third age - her remembered age. Miss Dawn and all the people who surrounded her, both close and casual, consider Dawn to be fourteen and fast approaching her fifteenth birthday.

In one of those little ironies that we so often encounter in life, the two adults who were perceived as being the farthest from Dawn's sphere, being of the shortest acquaintance, were in fact the two people closest to Miss Dawn during the summer that followed the death of her sister, Miss Buffy Summers. It was Miss MacClay that gently reminded the other actors on our stage - Mr. Xander Harris, Miss Anya Jenkins, Mr. Rupert Giles and, alas, even Miss Rosenberg - that Miss Dawn would soon need a celebration.

These were all good people who would perhaps normally have been more disposed to understand the importance of a birthday. However, the events of Miss Buffy's death had left them all wounded in sensibility, all pulling back within themselves, hoping to spare themselves newer pain whilst healing old, and moving about in a thin semblance of normal life. Thus while Miss Dawn, flush with hope that fifteen would be the magical age that would grant her access to adulthood, was dropping hints of high heels, weapons of mass destruction and karate lessons, those supposedly nearest and dearest were enchanting teddy bears, buying dolls and opening bank accounts. Miss MacClay clearly saw the world around her, yet also held close in her heart the remembrance of being fifteen years old. While aware that Miss Dawn would never be a witch, for it was not her nature, she undertook to gather the basic needs for a beginner to the Wiccan way. She knew Miss Dawn would benefit from the teachings, would learn new ways to appreciate the world and would come closer to inner peace, all the while feeling very grown up indeed.

Mr. Spike, alone of all Miss Dawn's parental figures, had neither purchased nor planned any gift for Dawn, even though he was in fact deeply sensible of the importance of her birthday. Oddly enough, he remembered with an even deeper sensitivity than Miss MacClay what it was like to be fifteen years old. Nonetheless, he loudly declaimed to one and all his complete and absolute lack of interest in such lowly proceedings as a 'birthday.' He repeatedly declaimed said lack of interest, whilst pacing back and forth at the Magic Box, voice strident, brandishing his arms as though they were flags, eyes flashing looks both dark and dire, daring anyone to disagree with his arguments.

"Waste of time, is what it is. Fifteen years, phfft, blink of an eye. No vampire worth his salt celebrates a birthday. Now fifteen years undead might be worth a mention."

And he further declaimed his lack of interest while sitting on the porch at Revello Drive between harsh inhalations of his cigarette and wild gesticulations that spewed burning ash like fervent fireflies about his head. Here though, in the presence of none save Dawn and Miss Kitty, his voice was remarkably more tender, his eyes full of an emotion that might have been love, though he would have denied it vigorously if so accused.

"No use expecting anything from me, Bit. I'm not gettin' you a thing. Doubt I'll even be here come your birthday. Most likely be doin' more important things."

Miss Dawn only smiled a smile of the deepest faith, unaware of how beautiful and how innocent and how young she appeared when that smile graced her features. Her eyes were luminous in that way only children's eyes ever are, as clear and bottomless as the deepest well, as yet untroubled by the ripples and turbulence that responsibility brings. Young Miss Dawn had encountered amazing, frightful monsters and sorrows that would bow many older and wiser than she, but through it all she was but chaff. In one wise she was a plaything of the evil that beset the Hellmouth, and on the other a precious thing cosseted and protected by her elders. She was as yet dependent on the grace of others for all things important in her life. She believed with paramount confidence that Mr. Spike would bring her a gift, the best gift, the gift she wanted most - a crossbow. Spike would understand the true gift being given, an acknowledgement that she was ready to assume her place among the heroes that surrounded her. An admission that at last she could undertake to be responsible for her own protection and well-being, no longer a burden but a colleague. An adult.

As we may have mentioned before, our protagonist Mr. Spike was a truly unique individual. Despite over a century of perversion, bloodshed and cruelty, he had retained an innocence of spirit, a yearning for grandeur, a desire to nurture, and an ability to love in the way that a child loves, not wisely but with a broad and accepting demeanor that condemns nothing while giving of itself fully. In this way he loved Miss Dawn. He would slay her dragons, make manifest her every wish, and care not whether she was sinner or saint. He could see every aspect of her, not just the face being presented to the world, but the kindest impulse, the cruelest desire, the twisted reasoning that would lead to the most illogical of behaviors - and he loved all. Where we would condemn a Dawn who was homicidal, and laud a Dawn who devoted her life to healing the sick, he would love both with the same ferocity. Mr. Spike would cherish either behavior as merely one facet of a marvelous whole, and he did not yet have the moral capacity to understand that any one characteristic was better than the other. Furthermore such was the childish portion of his nature, the impulsive need to react to immediate stimulus, the nervous energy that pressed him to move on from one thing to the next, that he seldom slowed down to consider any matter from beginning to end. He saw that Miss Dawn would be made happy if she were given a crossbow and there, as far as he was concerned, was an end to the matter. She would have a crossbow.

But an important element in the unfolding of our tale occurred before our action starts. An unfortunate downturn of fortune had befallen Mr. Spike. Events - a lack of students to fleece at pool because of summer break, threats from Mr. Giles should he be caught stealing or robbing, and heavy losses at the gambling table - had conspired to remove from him even the smallest necessities that he usually enjoyed. In consequence, as the crux of our tale approaches, Mr. Spike was skint. His pockets were bare and he was totally dependent on the mercy of Miss Dawn's co-custodians for the very blood he drank. Poor vampire, he had hoped without hope that he could prepare Miss Dawn for the possibility that he would fail her, that she would suddenly profess that she did not care whether he was able to provide a birthday gift or not. Instead she had smiled at him, revealed to him her utmost trust; she had laid her heart in his hands and he knew he could not bear the look in her eyes should he fail her.

Mr. Spike couldn't grasp the nature of the dull misery that welled in his chest and circulated through his body, as though his heart could still beat and distribute it in the place of his blood, moving it through his limbs where it pooled and thickened them like lead. You and I would recognize this as melancholy. Though this was not a new feeling to Mr. Spike in these days, he still keenly felt it as a foreign element to his being. Nothing in his vampiric nature prepared him to deal with it. He spoke out loud, though he stood now alone and there was no other to hear, words designed to shake away the feeling, as though it were a cloak that could be shrugged from his shoulders.

"It has to be the coat. Gonna have to sell the coat. Got nothin else left now. Be worth it, to see the look on her face."

But the feeling stubbornly clung to him and he continued his discourse, having no other to help with the offer of alternatives or to simply share the weight of his decision.

"Gonna miss it. Been with me a long time now but it's just a coat, that's all. I can always kill another slayer, score another coat. A 'Look' from my Niblet though, that's gonna stay with me forever. Up to me to make sure it's a happy look. Nothin I won't do for my girl. It's just a coat."

He slowed his stride, his state of mind pulling him so deep within himself that he took little note of world outside. So despondent was he that when a sound finally pierced his shell of misery - a sound so bleak and thin, so pitched to his own despair - he thought for a moment that perhaps he had uttered the sound himself. Shaking himself free from his unmindfulness he took note of the mournful and desperate kitten that begged for his attention.

As though it never existed, his melancholy was gone. His eyes sparkled, lit from within as though candles burned there, and his face was stretched into a smile so wide, so joyous that he could not have shown more tooth without shifting to gameface. Flinging his arms wide as though to embrace the very world, his voice brightened the still night with jubilant tones.

"Glory Hallelujah! I've been saved!"

He tucked the startled kitten into the crook of his arm and dashed off to begin initiating the plan that had blossomed full-blown within his head upon that very instant.

TBC...


	3. Chapter 3

Title: The Sorrowful Tale Of Miss Kitty Fantastico 3/?

Author: Molossus

Rating: PG overall

Archive: Anywhere, just let me know so that I can do the Snoopy dance.

Summary: A small tale wherein we explore the circumstances and events surrounding the disappearance of Miss Kitty Fantastico. Spike/Dawn friendship.

Disclaimer: Joss Whedon and ME own the universe that Spike adorns. I just worship there.

Note: I want to thank my beta Jenny for helping me work the snarls out of the twisted braid I have woven here. My muse wouldn't know what to do without her. Any mistakes are mine, she probably told me to take them out and I was too stubborn to do it.

Email: 

Previously: Miss Dawn approaches her fifteenth birthday. Mr. Spike, having no funds, can think of no way to buy her the crossbow she wants, until he stumbles across a kitten which bears a resemblance to Miss Kitty Fantastico.

CHAPTER 3

Mr. Spike hastened through the streets of Sunnydale, his destination an establishment of foodstuffs bearing the quaint name of 'The Wild Bill Hickory-OX Café' known for its charity to the homeless and most especially to those among the homeless with a pet to nourish.

Stopping only once upon his journey, he ran his rough-knuckled hands violently through his hair to muss it into tousled, unkempt curls, and touched his face in places with grime from the walls of a building. Poking into an overflowing trash bin, he removed enough ash to splash a thin layer here and there about his coat. He then placed the kitten on the trashbin lid, removed his comb from his voluminous pocket and set about grooming the cat, removing fleas and snarls of fur with gentle, measured strokes. Brushing down from the shoulder to the toes of the feet, from the back of the neck to the tip of the tail, he moved to short, quick flips at the chest and belly where the knots were worst. Over and over the tines of the comb caressed the small waif, until its scruffy coat began to gleam and fall into gentle waves, until the eyes that had been glossed over with misery began to close in ecstatic contentment and the tiny body began to rumble and throb with that motorlike vibration common only to cats.

This was indeed proof of his love for Miss Dawn. Mr. Spike was unusually meticulous in his grooming, keeping his appearance neat despite horrendous battles that were replete with slime, dust and various bodily fluids. Furthermore, he had the most enormous dislike and distaste for the natural curls that abounded upon his own head when allowed to do so. Believing that they gave him the appearance of a lopsided poodle, he spent vast amounts of time and hair-product in the attempt to keep them hidden from the world. To be willing to foul his own skin and his beloved coat, to encourage the hateful curls, to use his comb - the only comb in his possession - on a creature such as a cat, well this was a labor of love, far more meaningful to a vampire then if a similar act were performed by a human.

Finally, satisfied Mr. Spike proceeded to the restaurant with a nearly comatose kitten in hand.

When the hesitant woman, one Miss Jameson, if one could believe the badge pinned upon her chest, employee of the 'The Wild Bill Hickory-OX Café' investigated the knock at the restaurant's back door, she was rewarded with the spectacle of a painfully thin man, handsome but tousled and begrimed, an abashed look upon his face, as though he were uncertain of the means by which he had arrived at this destination. In his arms was a gleaming, immaculately groomed kitten that purred in somnolent contentment.

"Scuse me miss, don't need anything for myself, but I would appreciate it if you could spare a drop of milk or somewhat for my friend here. It's been a while since he's eaten."

You may well imagine the thrill of horror that stole a beat from Miss Jameson's tender heart. Such a lovely man, such a dear man, to care so little about himself, yet lavish so much loving, affectionate care on such a sweet, tiny kitten! Such a cruel world that would reduce such a beautiful man to such a state!

She exclaimed in tones both shocked and approving, "My stars and garters! You just wait right here while I see what I can rustle up."

His wait proved well worthwhile. By the time he was allowed to depart, having been regaled with a cup of coffee, a sweet, hot turnover and heaping measures of adoration and comfort that were a balm to his spirit, Mr. Spike was convinced that he could walk on water. It was the nature of Mr. Spike to be optimistic, leaping from even the deepest of despair to instant assurance that all would be right in his world. The acquisition of the kitten had been an inkling that luck had turned her previously blind eye in his direction and now saw fit to accede to his will. This unexpected largesse was only confirmation that he was on his way to the big time, and he would now admit to no possibility of impediment. Often enough this attitude had allowed him to accomplish near miracles, vanquish seemingly undefeatable foes, and overcome impossible odds. That it more often landed him in the deepest of doo doo was a fact that he willfully ignored.

Mr. Spike left Miss Jameson and the 'The Wild Bill Hickory-OX Café' far richer than when he arrived; he had been gifted with a heaping box containing a carton of fresh milk, two cans of Evaporated milk and three boxes of powdered milk, plus six large cans of tuna in spring water, six cans of chunky chicken, and a large block of cheddar cheese. He also carried away two 'Wild Bill Hickory BBQ specials' and a side-order of steak fries. Nestled among the foodstuffs were a small bowl and a bent but usable can-opener.

Not having anticipated such treasures, Mr. Spike was sinfully exhilarated. He bore his booty and the kitten to a quiet alley where he felt reasonably assured he would not be interrupted, placed the kitten on the ground, and poured a generous amount of the fresh milk into the bowl. He peeled the foil wrappings from the first of the BBQ 'specials' and then there occurred, dear reader, a contest of massive proportions.

The two beings went at their food as though it were a matter of enormous consequence who should finish their meal first. If a cat's anatomy were such that it allowed a cat to suck, the kitten would have surely won for it would have inhaled that milk down its throat in a great whole, a humongous gulp. As it were it plied its tongue to the job, dipping and flicking and twirling it through the liquid, dragging the milk from bowl to mouth in an endless stream. Meanwhile, Mr. Spike wrapped his tongue around the spicy pieces of barbequed meat, devouring with great concentration, eagerly catching at the small bits that sought to escape his plunder, relishing the way the hot tastes exploded in his mouth.

Afterwards, such was Mr. Spike's complete and utter relaxation that he lay back in replete contentment, even giving the kitten the last small crumbs of meat. Full of well-being and desirous of the warmth against his skin, he lifted the kitten, placing it on his stomach, and lay back, his nervous energy and frenetic nature for once at rest. When small belches escaped from their expanded bellies it was difficult to tell from which the sound issued. Mr. Spike took no physical nourishment from human food, but BBQ was nourishment to the soul, even if you didn't have one.

TBC...


	4. Chapter 4

Title: The Sorrowful Tale Of Miss Kitty Fantastico 4/?

Author: Molossus

Rating: PG Overall

Archive: Anywhere, just let me know so that I can do the Snoopy dance.

Summary: A small tale wherein we explore the circumstances and events surrounding the disappearance of Miss Kitty Fantastico. Spike/Dawn friendship.

Disclaimer: Joss Whedon and ME own the universe that Spike adorns. I just worship there.

Note: I want to thank my beta Jenny for helping me to work the snarls out of the twisted braid I have woven here. Any mistakes are mine, she probably told me to take them out and I was too stubborn to do it.

Email: 

Previously: Miss Dawn approaches her fifteenth birthday. Mr. Spike, having no funds, can think of no way to buy her the crossbow she wants, until he stumbles across a kitten. The kitten's resemblance to Miss Kitty Fantastico leads Mr. Spike to conceive of a plan. After conning a meal from a smitten employee at 'The Wild Bill Hickory-OX Café' he and the kitten a enjoy a moment of rest.

CHAPTER 4

Mr. Spike, contrary to what his detractors would have you believe, was quite capable of envisioning a plan. There might be some truth to the contention that he was less successful in bringing them to fruition – his nature was too impulsive, his patience too thin, his temper too great. He found it quite painless to keep himself centered when there was physical challenge, enjoying hard labor, finding great joy in smashing obstacles, and relishing the opportunity to direct others to his end. He was possessed as well with a great deal of intuition that allowed him to make leaps in logic, bringing him to the prize while others were still plodding through the maze. However, should there occur a period of inactivity, impulse would drive him to act unwisely, make him rush the prey before its capture was secure. Similarly, if he faced obstacles that could not be overcome by means of physical action his temper would fray and he would weary himself with useless violence or abandon his plan altogether. If his plotting required long hours of research or keen, mental strategy his interest would dwindle and he would often cede through sheer boredom. Despite these natural tendencies, if the prize were large enough, Mr. Spike would sink his jaws into the thing, like a very pit bull, refusing to be pried loose until his purpose was accomplished. He would wait patiently, research diligently and strategize. At no time was Mr. Spike more tenacious than when he sought something for someone he loved. And so, even after such a prodigious meal as he had just enjoyed, he was unable to rest for long. Having conceived of his plan, he could not be at ease while any portion of it remained undone, but must devote all his energies to its completion. Still there were details that must be seen to before he could launch into his endeavor.

Mr. Spike draped the kitten into position on one arm, as though she were an ornament to be hung from a tree, and he hefted the box in the other. The kitten was sleeping in that boneless fashion that is available only to kittens and puppies. Her head flopped over his arm, her features lax with contentment. One rear leg, jutting forth rigidly as though it were the prow of a ship rather than a kitten's leg, stretched out onto Mr. Spike's chest, while the majority of her form became shapeless, conforming to the fold between his arm and side.

Mr. Spike was not far from his crypt and it was to this place that he first visited. He paused before entering and placed the kitten on the ground so she could tend to that business imperative to all living beings who have ingested quantities of food. He noted that perhaps cold milk had caused a degree of indigestion, and was struck with the thought that he would need a few items if the kitten were to be sharing his home for any length of time. He entered the crypt only long enough to put the box of canned goods aside, and then retrieving the kitten, he was off to his next destination.

He wended his way to that place known to one and all as the 'Fish Tank' - home to demon bad-fellowship, liquid ingurgitation suitable to beings of all kinds, and an ever-present and on-going poker game.

Now let it be made known to our readers that not two days past, Mr. Spike had been most rudely and abruptly ejected when he attempted ingress to this place of business. Though no longer indebted to any, his debts were well remembered and he was tendered less latitude than any other among the demon community. A clash between science and magic - in the form of a 'chip' nestled in the fabric of his brain - followed by Mr. Spike's curious decision to go to none other than the Slayer for help, had resulted in making him something of a pariah among the other demons. He had no reason to presume he would be allowed into the bar other than his own stubborn conviction that it would be so.

Even with his fiercely held belief, Mr. Spike was surprised at the ease with which he wandered to the back room. Other than a measured and doleful glare from b'Huh the bartender, he was given no impediment to his progress. This gave him doubt, whereas harsh words and flying fists would have been met with disdain. He halted in front of the door, squared his shoulders, and considered the possibilities.

Could he be walking into an ambush? He had made no new enemies that he was aware of.

Could there be some malicious activity occurring, not directed towards him, but in which none would object to his fatal inclusion?

A thought struck Mr. Spike, tearing through his mind as though it were a bullet fired from a gun, and his hand shot to his head in dismay. He had not tidied his appearance since preparing himself to beg at 'The Wild Bill Hickory-OX Café'! He had just sauntered into the 'Fish Tank' with a head covered in lopsided poodle, in disarray like a homeless stray. Thoughts ricocheted with wild and deadly force through his head. Perhaps this explained his ease of entry, perhaps he had not been recognized, perhaps he would not be hearing about this for the rest of his unnatural life. Another explanation came to his mind, and we must admit that we think it the more likely, that b'Huh was probably at this very moment jiggling with laughter, jesting with his patrons over the depths to which Mr. Spike had fallen. Probably he had been allowed entry so that more within could see his shame.

"Straight through, Spike. Just walk in like nothin's the matter and see it straight through." He muttered under his breath, mind whirling. He could disarm this situation. He could. He just needed to think it through a bit. Nothing came to mind, however, save the old tried and true.

"If anyone so much as smirks I'll rip their eyeballs out and shove 'em so far down their throat they'll pop out their backside. Won't be anyone laughin' after that."

Feeling himself fortified upon reaching this conclusion, he took a deep breath and strode with confidence into the back room, glaring with only half-mocked fury at the hapless poker players who sat within.

Mr. Clem, M'wouf, OwOwt - these players were no strangers to Mr. Spike. They knew him well, and if any were inclined to think less of him because of his appearance or find any humor therein, well... let us just say that they found their cards suddenly all the more interesting and they were suddenly much happier with the hands they held. No one spoke, though many throats were cleared and a cough seemed to move through the group.

There was one exception, however, a stranger to Mr. Spike. The Phlemah'k demon waved (her)his luxuriant crop of nose hairs in merriment.

"Who let the dog back here? I thought only cats were allowed!" Honk! Honk! (s)he blew in laughter, totally unaware that (her)his third incarnation was about to be rudely terminated because (s)he had neither eyes nor a backside through which they could be shoved.

Ph'ulup'thhButt - for such was the Phlemah'k's nest denomination – had of course just confirmed Mr. Spike's very worst fears. His self-vaunted image as the Big Bad had taken a palpable hit. His entire reputation within the demon world could hinge on the very actions he now took. His fears were possibly somewhat exaggerated but, then again, it is very possible that they were not.

On the instant, his face was completely empty of expression and he made no movement. Still he managed to convey the absolute essence of menace, an air of ferocity so keen that none within the room doubted - should Ph'ulup'thhButt continue to laugh - he would rip the demon's head from (her)his shoulders, boot the body to the far side of the room, and take (her)his winnings, all within the time it took from one blink of the eye to the next. None within the room doubted, that is, save Ph'ulup'thhButt. (S)he was too caught up in (her)his merriment to realize how close to third death (s)he was.

Mr. Spike moved, so swiftly that he could barely be seen, leaving his place near the door and crossing to the table opposite from Ph'ulup'thhButt. He dropped the kitten with exaggerated gentleness, then leaned over until he was but mere inches away. Anger resulted in the eruption of Mr. Spike's vampiric face, his violently swirling eyes and his vicious, jagged teeth snapping into place. Ph'ulup'thhButt startled at this confrontation, (her)his back arched, perhaps to draw away from Mr. Spike, perhaps in an agony of fear, perhaps because Mr. Spike had grabbed (her)his nose hairs and was pulling them with all his strength.

"What was that about a dog?"

Ph'ulup'thhButt honked in a cacophony of fear and anger, unable at first to form words, then choking out the syllables. "No... Dogs... Here!"

Mr. Clem, a demon whose affable nature made him a natural arbiter among hostile associates, bared ferocious fangs in what was somehow a friendly smile and threw his arms wide to draw attention to himself.

"Hey! No dogs in here. No dogs at all. I think we can all agree to that."

Ph'ulup'thhButt might have shaken her/head in vigorous agreement were it not bowed low in an attempt to alleviate the agony caused by Mr. Spike's fierce grip. As it was (s)he contented her/himself with a moan, "No-o-o-o-oh Do-o-hgs!"

Mr. Spike was satisfied. It is entirely possible that he might have even felt a touch of smugness for we must admit he was not beyond such petty things. Whether or not he had reason to feel smug, it was not unreasonable of him to feel he had proven that - even though he might look like a fool - he was a 'dangerous' fool. He considered pursuing his action to an even more satisfying and therefore more violent end but decided to attend to more important business and he released Ph'ulup'thhButt's nose hairs. His anger quite abruptly forgotten, he turned to Mr. Clem.

"You still scouting out likely kittens for those cat worshipping demons? The ones that wanted me to steal Miss Kitty?"

TBC...


	5. Chapter 5

Title: The Sorrowful Tale Of Miss Kitty Fantastico 5/?

Author: Molossus

Rating: PG Overall

Archive: Anywhere, just let me know so that I can do the Snoopy dance.

Summary: A small tale wherein we explore the circumstances and events surrounding the disappearance of Miss Kitty Fantastico. Spike/Dawn friendship.

Disclaimer: Joss Whedon and ME own the universe that Spike adorns. I just worship there.

Note: I want to thank my beta Jenny for helping me to work the snarls out of the twisted braid I have woven here. Any mistakes are mine, she probably told me to take them out and I was too stubborn to do it.

Email: 

Previously: Miss Dawn approaches her fifteenth birthday. Mr. Spike, having no funds, can think of no way to buy her the crossbow she wants, until he stumbles across a kitten. The kitten's resemblance to Miss Kitty Fantastico leads Mr. Spike to conceive of a plan. Mr. Spike goes to the 'Fish Tank' tavern where he has a confrontation with another demon who laughs at his appearance. Once the demon in put his place Mr. Spike speaks to Mr. Clem, who has contacts with a clan of cat-worshiping demons.

CHAPTER 5

The 'Fish Tank' was primarily a demon bar, containing an abundancy of secluded nooks and niches whereby the darker of demon doings might be discussed - presumably in private - so when Mr. Spike and Mr. Clem discovered that the most desirable among these was already appropriated, Mr. Spike acted with that abrupt efficiency that characterized all his actions. He suggested, most reasonably and politely, that the occupants of the booth conclude their business while he simultaneously grabbed the largest among them by the collar, hauled it from its seat, and sent it sliding across the floor as though it were a bowling ball that knocked over tables and chairs instead of pins.

Mr. Spike supposed that his feat would have a twofold purpose - encouraging the impromptu bowling ball's companions to remove themselves and convincing others lurking about that it would be unwise to pry.

Our tale might have ended differently had Mr. Spike been less assured that he had effectively made his point. He might have paid more attention to the patrons that sat in close proximity. He might have discovered that Ph'ulup'thhButt had followed behind them and was sitting around the corner, (her)his nose hairs still vibrating from the violence done them but perfectly able to pick up sound waves. He might have but he did not, and on such things do fortunes turn.

Mr. Spike placed the kitten on the table for examination and Mr. Clem gently stroked his claws through her coat. The sweet-faced kitten peered up, her flower-petaled eyes wide in wonder, her inexperienced mind amazed at such a world that contained such hulking creatures, such ponderous beings! Mr. Clem pulled back each of her ears in turn, pulled her to and fro to glimpse each body part, then ran his fingers cunningly along the table - snatching them back and forth - until the kitten could not resist but must attack such frisky fiends. He observed her movements as she pounced in palpable joy, delighted with her playmate. Finally, he hefted the kitten in his palm, which she filled comfortably.

Mr. Clem rubbed his chin with his thumb and two forefingers - which you or I might be afraid to do if you or I had such claws or chin - but a lifetime's experience allowed him to do so without either catching his claws or scratching the skin that hung in saggy folds from his face. His usually bright, red eyes were pinkish and dulled with doubt as he spoke. "You got a certificate? Not one of the Egyptian breeds. Seems healthy enough, but – well - not purebred."

"Pureblood's not the only reason for breeding." Mr. Spike blustered, holding back his true argument - or rather the argument he believed to be most persuasive, for none of Mr. Spike's arguments were truly true this day. Nonetheless, he believed he had a compelling card and was waiting for the right moment to play it.

"Ye-ah, but the Bastets are looking for special cats. Rare Egyptian breeds, and this one..." Mr. Clem pulled the kitten's tail ever so gently, making her flip about to catch the evil enemy that had cravenly attacked from behind. "Well - cute - but nothing out of the ordinary."

Mr. Spike squared his shoulders and gazed directly into Mr. Clem's eyes, his face the embodiment of bonhomie, and he tilted his head. Now Mr. Clem, having had acquaintance with Mr. Spike for some time and being a fellow of some perspicuity, was immediately struck with mistrust – he was certain he was about to hear a lie.

Mr. Spike unconsciously inhaled a breath, holding it for a moment within his lungs, and then all in one exhalation - words tumbling forth as though they were weighted heavily from shock and incredulity - he spoke.

"You saying the Son of the Slayer's cat is nothing out of the ordinary?"

Mr. Clem was perhaps a bit more detail-oriented than Mr. Spike, and he had just examined the cat. "It's a female, Spike."

Mr. Spike's eyes widened as though in surprise, not entirely feigned as he had not thought to check the kitten's sex. He injected a measure of hearty pleasure into his voice, smiling the most sincerest of smiles. He was absolutely the most congenial of fellows.

"Even more valuable then! A female just like Miss Kitty Fantastico! Just like her mum!"

Now there is an ability, inherent not just to demons but to humans and perhaps to all beings that inhabit this earth, whereby one can start with an indisputable truth but by means of excuses and explanations one can twist this truth until it has been made suitable to one's own desires. Mr. Spike was lying, and Mr. Clem knew that he was lying, but Mr. Clem wanted Mr. Spike to be telling the truth. You may understand his motivations more clearly when we explain that the Bastets paid extremely well for the kittens they purchased. Mr. Clem was among the most level-headed and least greedy of demons, but even he had a place where reason ended and rationalization began. Still he hesitated for long moments, unwilling to yet succumb to dreams of undreamed of riches.

"The Bastets want Miss Kitty because they think she's the reincarnation of one of the Slayers. They think she gravitated to the Slayer's home because they're kindred spirits - and she'll bring a warrior's essence to their sacred cats. I don't know if they would be interested in one of her kittens..." Mr. Clem continued hesitantly, uncertain of Mr. Spike's temper, "...and that's if she is one of Miss Kitty's... I mean, she looks like Miss Kitty... but there's nothin' on the grapevine about the Slayer's cat having kittens..."

At this outrageous – and truthful - affront to his veracity Mr. Spike's face became stormy, threatening blue eyes gleaming beneath darkened brows, lower lip gliding forward like a protruding cloud. He slammed his arm on the table with the most horrific thump, which horribly startled both the poor kitten and Mr. Clem. When he spoke, his voice was loud and deepened with righteous indignation. "And the Slayer's going around these days telling just anyone what's happenin' in her household is she? Maybe ol' b'Huh's got a better in then me? Just 'cause I talk to the slayer every day, visit like I was a friend and all – why should I know anything?"

You might think this hostile display would send Mr. Clem into a frightful state of fear, all goosebumps and palpitating heart, but in fact he appreciated the hostility for the show that it was. No blood had been spilled, and Mr. Spike was speaking with heat and gesturing with broad flourishes. Like any predator, Mr. Spike was most dangerous when he turned cold and unmoving. Like any predator, Mr. Spike would then remain unmoving until he moved with the direct intent to attack. Mr. Clem knew he would be fortunate if he actually saw the vampire move before feeling teeth at his throat, before feeling warm blood flowing from his veins, should Mr. Spike actually be angry. Mr. Clem allowed himself to skitter away from that thought by bringing forth another possibility. "You could still go after Miss Kitty herself...you've got this little sweetheart," Mr. Clem again ran frisky fingers past the kitten, encouraging her to pounce, emphasizing her playfulness, "Dawn probably wouldn't miss the..."

The flow of Mr. Clem's words drew to a halt, goosebumps popping up all over his voluminous folds of skin and his chest thrumming from the force of his palpitating heart, as he noticed Mr. Spike's eyes turning to wintry crystals, his face chilling as though rimed over with frost, and his body freezing into glacial stillness. At once Mr. Clem's facial wrinkles clustered around another one of his smiles. "But, hey guy! Why not give the kitten a try? The Bastets will only say no if they aren't interested." Mr. Clem's smile twisted a bit. "Might look for another scout. But... I think it's worth a try!"

Mr. Clem sighed with considerable relief as Mr. Spike's aspect immediately thawed, his tongue sliding over his upper teeth, his features melting into a self-satisfied smirk. You might be surprised to learn that Mr. Clem held no rancor towards Mr. Spike for his lies, his deceitfulness or his coercion. After all, this was business between demons and Mr. Clem expected no less. And having now accepted Mr. Spike's lead, he himself was able to turn a blind eye to any niggling doubts Now he could fall full-hearted into dreams of undreamed of wealth.

"What say we have a drink to celebrate our partnership, eh?" Mr. Spike's sneer made clear that Mr. Clem was expected to pay for the celebratory drinks, and Mr. Clem had no objections but rather embraced the idea with some alacrity.

Mr. Spike sauntered off to the bar, Mr. Clem skittered his fingers past the kitten's rapt gaze, and ...Ph'ulup'thhButt scurried out the door.

TBC...


	6. Chapter 6

Title: The Sorrowful Tale Of Miss Kitty Fantastico 6/?

Author: Molossus

Rating: PG Overall

Archive: Anywhere, just let me know so that I can do the Snoopy dance.

Summary: A small tale wherein we explore the circumstances and events surrounding the disappearance of Miss Kitty Fantastico. Spike/Dawn friendship.

Disclaimer: Joss Whedon and ME own the universe that Spike adorns. I just worship there.

Note: I want to thank my beta Jenny for helping me to work the snarls out of the twisted braid I have woven here. Any mistakes are mine, she probably told me to take them out and I was too stubborn to do it.

Email: 

Previously: Miss Dawn approaches her fifteenth birthday. Mr. Spike, having no funds, can think of no way to buy her the crossbow she wants until he stumbles across a kitten whose resemblance to Miss Kitty Fantastico leads him to conceive of a plan. He heads to the 'Fish Tank' where he has a confrontation with Ph'ulup'thhButt, a demon he had never met before. After examining the kitten Mr. Clem agrees to contact a group of cat-worshipping demons, who had previously expressed interest in Miss Kitty and to tell them that he has one of Miss Kitty's kittens.

CHAPTER 6

Mr. Spike could not be said to sleep. It was his usual routine to retire shortly after night had succumbed to day, and fall into a state of unconsciousness so profound it might be considered hibernation were it not of such short duration. Usually he would not keep to this condition long – perhaps two or three hours – and then he would wake. Should his deepest slumber be disturbed, should he not be allowed to descend into its fullest depths to stay until his own internal clock called him forth, why then, think to yourself of any child who has been awakened early from his nap and you have the very picture of a cranky, disgruntled Mr. Spike.

On this day his slumberous routine had been disturbed at both beginning and end. Once he had returned to his crypt and desirous of his repose, Mr. Spike had placed the kitten in the box that once held canned goods from 'The Wild Bill Hickory-Ox Café' having replaced the cans with a blanket that was too tattered for even his taste. He crawled beneath his own covers and plumped his head against the pillow and shrugged his shoulders to push it about until the pillow was perfectly positioned. He closed his eyes and began his descent into slumber.

Thump!

Tiny feet pattered up his recumbent form and a warm furry body plumped itself upon his neck, soft, furry paws thrusting against his chin to push it into perfect pillow position. With a sigh, Mr. Spike rose and placed the kitten in her own box giving her a gruff admonition to stay in her own bed because 'Big Bads' did not sleep with kittens. He once more settled himself comfortably and closed his eyes.

Thump!

Tiny feet pattered up his recumbent form but were this time met halfway by the now irate Mr. Spike. With a snarl he once again placed the errant kitten into her bed and snapped out a stern admonition.

"Stay there you miserable little fuzzball or I'll be pickin' your fur outta my teeth!"

He crawled into his bed taking somewhat more time to find that perfect position, his nerves being now more disturbed. And even having found that right position, that one position best suited to avoid crimping the neck or cramping the arm, best suited to support the back, yet best suited to allow swift reaction in case of attack – should one awake to avoid it – even then Mr. Spike could not sleep for anticipation of a 'thump'. Long, long and long minutes he lay awake waiting for a 'thump'. He knew there would be one. The kitten was a kitten and she was a female and would surely not give in so easily. So he waited for a thump. And waited. But the 'thump' never came and eventually his eyes closed and eventually he slept that slumberous, deep sleep that was so natural to him.

Thump!

Tiny feet waited to see if there would be protest, sighs, snarls or signs of movement. When there were none, the kitten pattered up Mr. Spike's recumbent form, and settled into that crook betwixt the chin and chest and twirled there like a ringlet twisted over his shoulder and she slept.

All too soon though, the kitten was awake. She was young and life was good and she was hungry. What reason then for Mr. Spike to sleep when she did not? First she attempted to wake him with soft, soft pitty-pats to his chin. When he still slept she attempted to wake him with soft, soft pitty-pats to his nose. When he still slept she attempted to wake him with a soft, soft bite to his nose and her tiny teeth tickled and he woke with a start and a sneeze.

Mr. Spike was uncertain as to what exactly had awakened him, not remembering the pitty-pats or the bite, but he had his suspicions. Whatever the reason, he knew he would sleep no further that day so even though it was but a few hours since dawn, he rose and he fed the kitten and he showered.

When Mr. Spike stretched out his hand for his towel and brought it closer to him, he was struck at its sudden weight. Upon examining the towel he found a crazed kitten clinging and laddering her way up, twisting and tearing at the towel-monster with terrible kitten ferocity.

"Wonderful. Get to dry off with a towel covered in kitten spit."

When Mr. Spike placed his foot into the top of his trousers and slid it in until the tips of his toes peeked saucily out the end of his trousers, those toes were seized in a bite so savage that he cried out in pain.

"Ow! You little git! Leave off!"

And when Mr. Spike went to find his comb, he found it as he had left it - full of filthy, feline fur.

Now Mr. Spike was speechless. Sleep-deprived and speechless. He stared and he glared at the kitten wishing all manner of murder and mayhem to fall most suddenly upon her poor little kitten head. He glared a great glare as she flew at his feet and pounced on his toes. His glare grew ever more heated as he made an effort to turn the kitten to toast with the mere power of his eyes. The poor mite continued to bounce and pounce upon his toes, unaware and unconcerned that she was supposed to be a puddle of molten dead.

Mr. Spike sighed, and it was a peevish sigh. He had learned to expect no less of life – that the females around him should flout his desires - and he now contented himself with comments concerning the kitten's ancestry. He made unmistakably clear that she was not a goddess, that she was not the reincarnation of a warrior and that possibly he was confused about the difference between a female cat and a female dog.

Mr. Spike plopped himself down in his chair to watch Very Important Television – not even bothering to put on his shirt - while the kitten continued her quest to catch whatever moved. Since the most active occupants in the crypt were the kitten herself and Mr. Spike, she thoughtfully divided her attacks. She attacked his toes, she attacked her own tail, she attacked the curls that curled at the top of the chair. Mr. Spike swore and he snarled and he attempted a smack, and he learned right away that his chip was intact. Finally, to keep the kitten distracted Mr. Spike sought out the catnip mouse that Mr. Clem had given him and there followed a rousing game of kitten catch the tail.

Eventually even this exciting pastime palled and the kitten curled up on Mr. Spike's lap. They discussed the itching of ears and the scratching of ears. At first Mr. Spike insisted it was nothing to him that ears itched at all. But the kitten was a clever cat and she nibbled and bumped and pushed at fingers until they couldn't help but busy themselves with the business of scratching and eventually even itchy ears were satisfied.

Vampire and kitten stayed thus for a while, both entranced with the tales of rousing adventure that scrolled across the television screen. The kitten - being of younger years and less developed mind - proved slightly more susceptible to the hypnotic flickering of images and the narcotic effect of catnip, and fell deeply into the arms of Morpheus whereas Mr. Spike merely lapsed into a stupor.

"Robin Hood!" exclaimed the Sheriff of Nottingham, as Richard Greene - resplendent in a 1950's version of Lincoln Green - swung in heroic Robin Hood fashion to bar the Sheriff access to the forest path. Swords were swiftly drawn, arrows were artfully notched and shouts were shouted. Then the fracas was done and the posturing began. Mr. Spike was incensed at this paltry effort and he cursed throughout the fray as he sniffed at the kitten's catnip mouse. "Thump him, Little John!" "You idiot! How could you miss a target that easy?" "DAWN could put up a better fight than those guards..."

As though speaking Miss Dawn's name was a conjuring, Mr. Spike realized with a thrill of the most awful horror that the door to his crypt had opened, and Miss Dawn was at his doorstep peering in.

"Spike, are you here?" Miss Dawn inquired, even as she entered his home.

Now you may wonder at Mr. Spike's horror, as we have mentioned many times the singular love he held for Miss Dawn. But Mr. Spike held an image of himself, an image at once most vampiric and most human, and in this image he was the Big Bad. And he held that all that was of value within himself was contained within this image. And he held that if any who loved him saw beyond the image they would love him less.

And now here he was, with that lopsided poodle poodling on his head, a kitten sitting on his shoulder, half-dressed in jeans that he realized were only half-buttoned and watching an episode of an old children's television show. He would rather be instantly transported back to the 'Fish Tank' in this very same condition then face Miss Dawn at this instant in time. At least at the Fish Tank he could kill somebody to relieve his frustration and there would be no one there that he cared should they love him less.

He froze. His mind wished to think of so many things at once and 'because' it wished to think of so many things at once, it could think of nothing.

What to do?

What could be done?

What to do first?

Mr. Spike had faced many disasters in his long unlife and so he was not long paralyzed.

First things first – he buttoned.

Then he repositioned the kitten from shoulder to hand - he had not meant for Miss Dawn to know about her - and he sought wildly for possible kitten hideaways. He recognized that even if he could keep the kitten unseen, Miss Dawn would notice the litterbox, the catnip mouse and the other assorted toys scattered about the crypt. Accepting that it would be fruitless to hide the kitten, he consoled himself with the thought that at least Miss Dawn was going to be enchanted.

He restrained himself from throwing his hand to his head in the hope that his curls could be smoothed out. He knew the futility of it. Miss Dawn would at last learn his most secret of secrets – his curly hair.

In despair, he jumped from the chair to the television and turned it off, hoping against hope that at least he would be spared this – that Miss Dawn had not yet overheard the Sheriff shouting "Robin Hood!"

Stupid Sheriff.

He turned to Miss Dawn, throwing upon her a gaze quite similar to that which he had earlier visited upon the hapless kitten. Miss Dawn was no further intimidated than the cat had been.

"Hey, Spike," she giggled, "What's with the curly hair? It's cute!"

TBC...


	7. Chapter 7

Title: The Sorrowful Tale Of Miss Kitty Fantastico 7/?

Author: Molossus

Rating: PG Overall

Archive: Anywhere, just let me know so that I can do the Snoopy dance.

Summary: A small tale wherein we explore the circumstances and events surrounding the disappearance of Miss Kitty Fantastico. Spike/Dawn friendship.

Disclaimer: Joss Whedon and ME own the universe that Spike adorns. I just worship there.

Note: I want to thank my beta Jenny for helping me to work the snarls out of the twisted braid I have woven here. Any mistakes are mine, she probably told me to take them out and I was too stubborn to do it.

Email: 

Previously: Miss Dawn approaches her fifteenth birthday. Mr. Spike, having no funds, can think of no way to buy her the crossbow she wants until he stumbles across a kitten whose resemblance to Miss Kitty Fantastico leads him to conceive of a plan. He heads to the 'Fish Tank' where he has a confrontation with Ph'ulup'thhButt, a demon he had never met before. After examining the kitten Mr. Clem agrees to contact a group of cat-worshipping demons, who had previously expressed interest in Miss Kitty and to tell them that he has one of Miss Kitty's kittens. Miss Dawn unexpectedly visits Mr. Spike at the crypt and discovers the kitten and Mr. Spike's curly hair.

CHAPTER 7

Few of us have had knives chop into our brain but undoubtedly most of us have had occasion to feel as though we did, so we may sympathize with poor Mr. Spike as Miss Dawn's words stabbed into his ears.

"I lo-o-ve curly hair!"

"Can I style it?"

"Oooh! We could do a kind of Hugh Grant thing! You know... all kind of floppy on top!"

We must admit that even though Mr. Spike loved Miss Dawn, his natural bent toward evil enticed him with evil thoughts as she bubbled on. Three distinct and separate ways to remove the human tongue from its throat. A singularly effective means to bind and gag. A simple means of vampire suicide. All flashed and died aborning. But these were only thoughts with no true motivation to move them to actual action. Instead, he stood dumbly and thrust in her direction the only weapon available to him, the only weapon he would consider using on Miss Dawn – he thrust out the kitten in her direction.

Miss Dawn's countenance became transformed. Her eyes grew wide and her mouth grew round and rounder, as though her lips were wrapped round a coin. Eagerly she clutched the kitten in her hands, clutched the kitten to her breast and she gave soft oohs and so cutes, all her thoughts of curls and hairstyles flown away and forgotten.

Mr. Spike swiftly moved about, searching out a shirt to cover his bare chest. He had no shyness about him as regards to naked flesh, his own or any others. To him intent was all. Mr. Spike knew he was quite capable of far more lewdness fully clothed then most humans were capable of fully naked. Nonetheless, he understood how painfully precarious was his standing with Miss Dawn's co-custodians. He understood how thoroughly they disapproved of her visits to his crypt. He understood that if they believed Mr. Spike's intentions to be in the least salacious, in the least immoral, in the least anything less than their own standards dictated – well, then the least he could expect was that Miss Dawn would be forever barred from his crypt and more probably he could expect to be dust.

Propriety satisfied, Mr. Spike covered his palms with hair gel and slicked them across his head, forcing the wild curls into rigid if roughly shaped planes. It was the best he could do until he cleaned out his filthy fur-infested comb, but he wanted no more discourse concerning curls.

So busy was he with his attire that he completely overlooked a curious interaction occurring between Miss Dawn and the kitten. As you may be aware, it is within the power of kittens and puppies to turn themselves instantly to the most malleable of substances – a mercurial substance that pours its weight from one place to another with fluid rapidity – so that when you seek to grasp it there is no substance there to grasp. So now as Miss Dawn sought to cosset and cuddle, she found the kitten sliding into unaccustomed shapes, sliding so quickly that her hands could not keep hold of all the bits and pieces of kitten, and inevitably the kitten slid to the floor.

The kitten slid to the floor and Miss Dawn reached out and took the kitten anew in her grasp. Again the kitten became that curious mixture of fluid and firm and slid to the floor. Three times this action played out and she understood that the kitten was not shy but actively rejecting her advances. Miss Dawn's tender feelings were hurt at this, for is a kitten not an object of love, undiscerning love that embraces all, and is this not why we love them? What could be wrong with herself that a kitten should object to her?

And then she observed the kitten hurrying with joyful gait and enraptured gaze toward Mr. Spike and she understood with a wisdom beyond her years that young as this kitten might be her love was no longer undiscerning but bound to one person and that person was Mr. Spike.

Mr. Spike startled a bit as the kitten leapt from floor to chair to shoulder where she purred her happiness into his ear. His head whipped around to look at Miss Dawn. He had not expected to her to lose interest in the kitten so soon.

"What? You don't like the pollywog then?"

Miss Dawn smiled, and it was not a child's smile but rather a woman's, smiled when she has seen love and been moved by it.

"No, that's not it. Spike you do realize that kitten's completely ga-ga over you?"

Now Mr. Spike was startled indeed, it never having occurred to him to consider a kitten's feelings at all. He was new to the consideration of anyone's feelings, save his own and those of his former paramour Miss Drusilla, and he opened himself to others with great difficulty. While he could see motivation and intent with startling clarity and ease, he must slow down to look at each individual with great thought before he could bring himself to care for their feelings. It was not just his impulsive nature speeding him on that made him hesitate to do so, for having once cared he found it difficult to discontinue. This grated against all he had been taught as a vampire and against all his natural vampire bent. It was difficult to deal with and therefore he seldom did it. He had not wanted Miss Dawn to see the kitten simply because he did not wish to explain his plan or how it would lead to her crossbow. He had not thought that feelings might enter into the occasion and now was unsure how to proceed. He chose the prosaic.

"Well, she'll have to get over it. Not my kitten. I'm just keepin' her for someone else."

"Oh! No! She totally loves you... she'll be unhappy with anyone else! Tell the owners that she ran away or...or was eaten by wolves...or something. She's your cat now!"

Miss Dawn was distraught. This was the path of 'True Love' being disturbed!

Mr. Spike heard the note of despair and was dismayed. The kitten was his means for making Miss Dawn happy and now she was not. He sought frantically within his mind, seeking for the suitable words, the appropriate words, the exact words to make Miss Dawn happy again.

"No! She won't be unhappy at all. She's a Goddess, see. She's a cat-Goddess and she'll be worshipped and slaved over and she'll have lots and lots of little Goddess and Godling offspring to keep her happy ... and... and if I did keep her she would be eaten... not by wolves of course... it'd be some cat-eatin' demon but she'd be just as eaten... so I can't keep her, see?"

As was his wont, Mr. Spike had spoken his words all in one breath and stood now breathless waiting for Miss Dawn's reaction, his face creased with worry... would she understand he couldn't keep the kitten? Would she understand and still be unhappy? What would he do if she didn't understand – if she was still unhappy?

Miss Dawn said, "Huh?"

There came now a pounding at the crypt door and Mr. Clem's voice came thinly through the seams around it.

"Hey Spike! You in?"

Mr. Spike moved swiftly - he knew Mr. Clem to be one of the least dangerous of his acquaintances, but he did not yet trust him to make acquaintance with Miss Dawn. Also there was a glimmering of an idea aborning within his head, a way to further convince Miss Dawn that the kitten must go to her new home. He gestured pointedly, pointing Miss Dawn to the trapdoor that led to his bedroom and put his finger against his lips to indicate that she should wait below without making a sound. Miss Dawn followed his suggestion and Mr. Spike moved to the door, ignoring the tiny claws that the kitten dug into his shoulders as she sought to keep from losing her purchase.

As Mr. Spike swung the door wide to admit his friend, he again placed his finger against his lips knowing that Miss Dawn would be listening intently. In a voice that was pitched to demon hearing, he explained what he wanted from Mr. Clem.

Meanwhile Miss Dawn waited below in a fevered pitch. Somehow, she could not make herself feel as frightened as she felt that she should be. Instead, she felt excitement extending through her nerves as she anticipated possible outcomes.

Was this a dangerous demon?

He had called Spike by name. Did that mean he was Spike's friend?

Was Spike in danger? Was she in danger?

She was much like a child watching a horror movie wherein all the thrills of danger were experienced in safe surroundings. And therein lay a great portion of her childish attraction to Mr. Spike. He was evil, one of the very evils that had made her life a nightmare, one of the same evils that had threatened her sister time and again, one of the very same evils that all her friends and family had struggled against for as long as she could truly remember. But he was an evil that had detached himself from the Evil All and become hers, to protect her against evil using evil's own weapons. And this made her feel safe.

Miss Dawn's eyes widened and her heart's rhythm sped to a faster rhythm as she heard voices raised as though in contention.

"You can't have this cat you fiend! She's not a meal for the likes of you!"

"Ahrrr! Uhrrrr!"

There came the sound of feet stomping great stomps and furniture falling flatly upon the floor.

Now you may have noticed that neither Mr. Spike nor Mr. Clem could be considered natural-born actors. This sad lack had not escaped Miss Dawn either and her brow wrinkled in disdain. Curiosity overcame any remaining vestige of fear and she climbed to the top of the trapdoor to look out.

Unfortunately she looked out just at the moment when Mr. Clem, now wholeheartedly claiming his role, chose to assume his most horrifying aspect. He stood towering over the trapdoor, his ponderous, saggy-skinned bulk posed with arms akimbo, claw-tipped weapons waiting to grab up innocent kittens for the eating. But it was his face that most frightened Miss Dawn, being torn open as though greatly wounded, tendrils flicking about with wild abandon and terrifying teeth standing in jagged relief from a fleshless mouth. In a future time that we cannot yet see, Miss Dawn would know Mr. Clem for the nearly harmless being that he was, but for now he looked horrifying and she was horrified and she screamed.

Mr. Spike was equally horrified that Miss Dawn should have been so seriously frightened, it not having been his intention, and he directed Mr. Clem towards the door with a quick flick of his thumb. Still desirous of convincing Miss Dawn that the kitten was not safe in his crypt he continued with his show.

"Get out of here or I'll pull out your intestines, wrap 'em around your neck and twist 'em into a bow-tie!"

Mr. Clem hesitated, torn between the wish to console Miss Dawn and the wish to remove himself from a potentially irate Mr. Spike. He disliked being disliked and had little of the demon desire to terrify, but prudence dictated his course and he left.

Mr. Spike took the hand of Miss Dawn and he helped her up to the top floor. He reached out for a moment, as though to wrap his arm about the girl, but his self-image intruded itself convincing him that such an action could be construed as weakness. Instead, he righted one of the fallen chairs and sat her down and placed the kitten in her arms. He contented himself with lightly touching a hand to her shoulder. He peered down, unsure if the kitten would co-operate with his desire to soothe Miss Dawn. He need not have worried, for almost as though the kitten could read his desire, could feel the love that now fueled his concern, she settled against Miss Dawn as she would not before, draping herself upon Miss Dawn's bosom, placing one paw on each side of her neck as though to hold Miss Dawn's head in place and proceeded to thoroughly clean her chin with her rough kitten tongue.

Mr. Spike spoke softly, "You understand, right? The pollywog can't stay."

Miss Dawn nodded her head. She understood – with horrible kitten-eating demons like that around - the kitten couldn't stay. She turned her eyes to Mr. Spike – a woebegone waif – saddened because the kitten would be sad and Mr. Spike turned his eyes to her – upset that his plan for her happiness had in anyway led her to sadness.

The kitten purred in perfect contentment.

TBC...


	8. Chapter 8

TITLE: THE SORROWFUL TALE OF MISS KITTY FANTASTICO 8/?

Author: Molossus

Rating: PG

Archive: Anywhere, just let me know so that I can do the Snoopy dance.

Summary: A small tale wherein we explore the circumstances and events surrounding the disappearance of Miss Kitty Fantastico. Spike/Dawn friendship.

Disclaimer: Joss Whedon and ME own the universe that Spike adorns. I just worship there.

Note: I want to thank my beta Jenny for helping me to work the snarls out of the twisted braid I have woven here. Any mistakes are mine, she probably told me to take them out and I was too stubborn to do it.

Email: 

**Previously**: Miss Dawn approaches her fifteenth birthday. Mr. Spike, having no funds, can think of no way to buy her the crossbow she wants until he stumbles across a kitten whose resemblance to Miss Kitty Fantastico leads him to conceive of a plan. He heads to the 'Fish Tank' where he has a confrontation with Ph'ulup'thhButt, a demon he has never met before. After examining the kitten Mr. Clem agrees to contact a group of cat-worshipping demons, who have previously expressed interest in Miss Kitty and to tell them that he has one of Miss Kitty's kittens. Miss Dawn unexpectedly visits Mr. Spike at the crypt and thinks Mr. Spike should keep the kitten. He and Mr. Clem stage an act to convince Miss Dawn the kitten cannot stay with Mr. Spike.

CHAPTER 8

Mr. Spike's leap left him for a long moment suspended in the sunlight, a leathered crow aloft on dark wings. Though his flight through the light was brief - a fleeting passage from shadow to shadow - smoke already danced with feathered feet about his head. As was his wont when he was disturbed, Mr. Spike was taking chances. The need to focus on the physical, to measure to the moment the length of time he could defy this natural enemy, this effort took the foremost of his thought and made other worry fade for a time. In the same way that he was driven to seek out and challenge slayers, so was he driven to seek out and challenge the sun.

Mr. Spike felt his wrist and palm seized and held by tiny claws so tiny teeth could have their way. He peered into his pocket, thinking for a moment that perhaps the kitten was frightened, but jungle green eyes gleaming with kitten mischief assured him that she found flying to be a wonderful game and she wished only to participate in the fun.

"Oh! No! She totally loves you... she'll be unhappy with anyone else!"

Miss Dawn's words poked at him - prickly little words - that pricked his conscience when there should have been no conscience to prick and he was sore confused. Why was Dawn so sad about the kitten? Why should he care what a kitten felt? Dawn was going to get her crossbow. That would make her happy, make him happy. He and Clem were going to get money which would make them both happy. And the kitten... that kitten was going to be a Goddess! What was there about this situation that could possibly be wrong? Why did he have this... feeling that somehow he was screwing up?

Mr. Spike sighed and chose to dash through another sun-dappled patch of ground rather than traversing through shadowed safety.

He erupted through the 'Fish Tank' door - a wraith wreathed about in smoky plumes - frantically spanking at the sparks that danced about his head, all the while attempting to hold back the kitten. She had latched onto his coat sleeve, laddered her way up his arm and swung her paws into wild gleeful swipes, determined to catch the elusive sparks. Once the inferno was quenched and the kitten secured, Mr. Spike glanced at the clock overhead – almost noon – right on time. Uncertain of his welcome, he cast a wary eye at b'Huh who gave him a slow measured stare but made no protest when he made his way to the booth where Mr. Clem and another demon conversed over a pitcher of Yak urine.

"Spike!" Mr. Clem rose up from the table in a sudden rush as though frightened that Mr. Spike would not see them or would perhaps change his mind and turn to leave where he had just entered. His words spurted forth in a tumble. "This is Mafdet, fifteenth holder of the clan denomination Mau. If she decides the kitten is worthy of ascent to Mau designation then she'll be the kitty's body servant... you know... fetch and carry, every desire... Mafdet, this is Spike and that's the kitten... which you probably figured out... " Mr. Clem's smile seemed to slide from his face slowly as though tacked there with a faulty pin. He sat down.

Miss Mafdet stared for a few long moments, the blinking of her large, bisected eyes and the twitching of her rosette-tipped nose the only movement she made. With a suddenness that was shocking her expression became scornful and mocking, her features twisted into a frightful face – ears flattened to her head, eyes slendered into slits, teeth rendered into pointed threat and when she spoke her words punched at them like bullets.

"You are a vampire."

"That a problem?" "I'm sure I mentioned that." Mr. Spike and Mr. Clem spoke at the same time but Miss Mafdet chose to respond only to Mr. Spike, her now unblinking eyes - predator eyes - boring into his, her malevolent scowl smoothed into a still and steady glare.

"Vampires stink."

Mr. Spike was wounded. He cared little for the opinion of someone he had just met, but the injustice – that someone who was enjoying a pint of yak urine should complain about the way HE smelled...

Mr. Spike became as still and motionless as Miss Mafdet – two predators staring one another down. The patrons at nearby tables rose and left as though the temperature had dropped and they wished to seek out warmer climes. The clock on the wall struck twelve. Then Miss Mafdet's face shifted into that shocking, mocking scowl...

Mr. Clem was the most moderate of fellows - normally a bit timid - but on this occasion he smelled neither vampire nor urine but rather the smell of minted green money and he showed a flash of true grit by jumping up once again and approaching Mr. Spike to take hold of the kitten.

"Hey, let's get down to business. Mafdet, why don't you take a look at our little princess here..."

His words brought Mr. Spike back from that place of hurt and anger he had been inhabiting and reminded him of his goal. Mr. Spike closed his eyes, took a deep breath and rotated his neck. He reminded himself... this was for Dawn...

Mr. Clem was struggling with a kitten that refused to be dislodged. As though they were a species of tiny burr, she sank the claws from one paw into the leather of Mr. Spike's coat. No sooner would Mr. Clem succeed in freeing all the claws from that paw then he would find that another paw had affixed itself. The kitten had only four feet but Mr. Clem had only two hands and the kitten was winning.

Mr. Spike forced a smile to his face and removed the kitten from Mr. Clem. "Let me do the honors."

He moved the kitten - who immediately loosened her death grip – into the crook of his neck, and showed one and all how well he had learned the lesson of scratching itchy ears. He spoke to the kitten in a low, calming voice.

"Filthy little rat. You punctured my coat. Should break your neck." The kitten purred with contentment and Mr. Spike sat down in the booth – crowding closely to Miss Mafdet, who composed her features into that deadly scowl but made no other protest.

"The kitten has bonded with you."

Mr. Spike fought panic. These words were uncomfortably close to Miss Dawn's very words and he worried that this would be a deal breaker. He began to envision backup schemes. Possibilities and drawbacks hurried through his head. He could just kill Mafdet – he'd like that – and take the money. Clem wouldn't be happy but would surely back him up in a claim that Mafdet had never arrived in Sunnydale. They'd have to be careful about spending the money – wouldn't want it traced - but he should still be able to get the crossbow.

"A slayer would feel an affinity to vampires. I would have thought it would be hostile, but given your relation to the current slayer perhaps her attachment is not so unusual. Please put the candidate on the table so that I may examine her."

To say that Mr. Spike was of two minds at this moment would be generous. He was quite attached to the idea of killing Mafdet. He did not like Mafdet. But that plan had greater risks and so he took a deep breath, let go of his annoyance and allowed his relief to come to the fore. The original plan was viable. The original plan was good. The original plan wouldn't be nearly as much fun but he would stick to it like he should. He removed the kitten from his neck and placed her on the table. She had fallen asleep and protested vociferously.

Miss Mafdet's entire demeanor shifted. Where before her features became fierce they now somehow seemed softer, her head was tilted, her eyes dancing with amusement as she listened to the kitten yowl. Her profession was shown in sharp relief by the manner in which she handled the cat – no manner of weight shifting, no burr-like claws saved the kitten this time. These were trained hands that removed her from Mr. Spike's grasp and they anticipated weight shifts and were already in place to deflect tiny teeth or clasping claws. Miss Mafdet seemed to be testing her reflexes, her willingness to fight, almost letting her go, almost letting her return then at the last moment stopping her. At no time did Miss Mafdet's grasp become too hard or too heavy but at no time was the kitten able to go more than a few inches before she was brought back to her original place. After a while the kitten's yowls changed in pitch sliding the scale from anger to anxiety and she trembled and held still, her eyes pleading with Mr. Spike to rescue her.

"Here now! You're hurtin' her. That's no way to treat a Goddess."

Mr. Spike had restrained himself – withholding the blistering comments that had bubbled onto his tongue, swallowing his bile - but he could hold back no longer. This mangy cat-worshipper was mishandling his cat!

Miss Mafdet's mouth moved into what could only be a smile of amusement. "She feels no physical discomfort. She fights well and is unhappy with defeat. A warrior spirit. I accept your claimant as an initiate to Designate Mau. She must be cleansed of your vampire foulness and then she will be suitable for her ascension to Godhood."

"You're not going to kill her or anything are you?" Mr. Spike couldn't stop the words coming from his mouth. He had what he wanted. The kitten had been accepted. What did he care about the kitten's fate? It was just the yowls grating on his nerves making him question where he did not care.

"You're not going to kill her... are you?"

Miss Mafdet's mouth condescendingly smiled again. "Dead cats bear no kittens. Were you not a vampire we would seek to retain your services as her servant. Unfortunately, your taint would contaminate her holy presence. You will be the only wish she will be denied. She will forget you soon enough."

The melancholy that had bled through Mr. Spike before he found the kitten - the melancholy that had dissipated upon his discovery - now descended upon him like a leaden cloak – as though the kitten had removed it and now returned it as she moved on to another life.

Miss Mafdet placed lovely bundles of cash upon the table and as though he observed from a distance he saw Mr. Clem's claws twitch with anticipation. He waited for the feelings to come. Mafdet was stupid to put all that money out on view like that. Why wasn't he upset? Clem was eyeing that money with a little too much greed. Why wasn't he angry? He had achieved his goal. The crossbow was as good as got. Dawn would be happy. Why wasn't he happy? It was the yowling. That was it. The yowling grating on his nerves. He'd be fine as soon as the kitten was gone, as soon as he no longer heard the yowls.

Mr. Spike observed as Miss Mafdet reached under the table to pull forth a cage, sumptuously lined in silks and velvets. He observed as she placed the kitten into the velvet cage. He observed as she got up and moved away and went out the door.

After a few moments, Mr. Spike sniffed loudly, seemingly come back to his normal state of mind. Sneering slightly he looked over the room gauging the few patrons as though to determine if any were paying attention to business not their own. After a few moments he seemed satisfied and began to parcel out the money without counting.

"Want something better n' yak urine?" He asked Mr. Clem.

"Oh yeah. Yak's not my urine of choice."

"Right then. My treat."

Ignoring Mr. Clem's startled but gratified expression, Mr. Spike strode off to find b'Huh.

"What'll it be?" b'Huh wasn't happy having Mr. Spike in his bar but was quite content with the opportunity to take his money.

"J.D. - Bottle." Mr. Spike figured he had enough money to splurge and maybe after a few drinks he wouldn't hear that damn yowling anymore.

TBC...


	9. Chapter 9

Title: The Sorrowful Tale Of Miss Kitty Fantastico 9/?

Author: Molossus

Rating: PG

Archive: Anywhere, just let me know so that I can do the Snoopy dance.

Summary: A small tale wherein we explore the circumstances and events surrounding the disappearance of Miss Kitty Fantastico. Spike/Dawn friendship.

Disclaimer: Joss Whedon and ME own the universe that Spike adorns. I just worship there.

Note: I want to thank my beta Jenny for helping me to work the snarls out of the twisted braid I have woven here. Any mistakes are mine, she probably told me to take them out and I was too stubborn to do it.

Email: 

**Previously**: Miss Dawn approaches her fifteenth birthday. Mr. Spike, having no funds, can think of no way to buy her the crossbow she wants until he stumbles across a kitten whose resemblance to Miss Kitty Fantastico leads him to conceive of a plan. He heads to the 'Fish Tank' where he has a confrontation with Ph'ulup'thhButt, a demon he has never met before. After examining the kitten Mr. Clem agrees to contact a group of cat-worshipping demons, who have previously expressed interest in Miss Kitty and to tell them that he has one of Miss Kitty's kittens. The kitten has been accepted by one of the cat-worshippers who has just left the 'Fish Tank' taking her to her new home where she will be considered a Goddess.

CHAPTER 9

"May you metabolize mossbark!"

"Juff the Fudra!"

Now you may not be aware of it but Phlemah'ks are a religious race with a rich panoply of gods, goddesses, demi-gods and divine warriors. No other Phlemah'k was more strict in the observance of ritual prayer and stringent sacrifice than Ph'ulup'thhButt. (Her)His devotion, however, had not in anyway lessened the severity of infection that infested (her)his nose hairs due to their rough treatment at Mr. Spike's hands. Those nose hairs were (her)his main sensory organ and the crystallization that coated them and the foul noxious odor that came from it left (her)him nearly blind and deaf as we would reckon such things. (S)he cursed each and every one of the gods, goddesses, demi-gods and divine warriors that had failed to keep (her)him in good health. Phlemah'ks are pious but not especially prone to be humble.

"...and swallow your tongues and be constipated!"

To make matters worse Ph'ulup'thhButt had stayed too long at prayer. (Her)His carefully considered plan, the hours spent spying on Mr. Clem, the money paid for information on Miss Mafdet's arrival – all a loss because now Ph'ulup'thhButt had missed (her)his chance to waylay Miss Mafdet and steal the money meant to pay for the reincarnated slayer kitten. Still Ph'ulup'thhButt was not one to accept defeat and (s)he wobbled and weaved in drunken staggers, hurrying toward the 'Fish Tank' in hopes that somehow (s)he could salvage some sliver of (her)his plan. So lost was (s)he in (her)his misery and the cloudiness of (her)his senses that (s)he almost missed the sound of an indignant yowling kitten.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------

Two fingers folded into his palm, two fingers formed into a point and his thumb was fixed at a right angle – making of Mr. Spike's hand an impromptu pistol that he whipped about in counterpoint to his argument. Not that Mr. Clem was arguing with him. Mr. Clem was merely attempting to keep his drink from being knocked over – an innocent victim to Mr. Spike's pistol pointed gestures.

"It's not that I care, y'understand... cause I don't. Just didn't like the way she was handlin' that cat. I mean - goddess - right? 'N she's reincarnated from the slayer an' all... should get some respect."

Mr. Clem was at that stage of drunkenness wherein the slightest of matters took on a profound and puzzling meaning. He had allowed himself to be convinced of the kitten's ancestry but in his heart of hearts he was sure - he was certain - that he himself was more likely to be a reincarnation of the slayer than that kitten was. Yet Mr. Spike spoke now with a conviction that was strangely disturbing – the money had been obtained, the kitten was gone – who was Mr. Spike trying to convince? Mr. Clem mulled and ruminated and rolled the puzzle through his muzzy mind and in single moment of drunken clarity he believed he understood and this was his thought - Spike had grown attached to the kitten. That could certainly happen - kittens being as cute as they were. Except, he thought, kinda strange for a vampire. It was actually rather sweet.

Mr. Clem gave a great shudder and immediately drove all thoughts of sweetness from his mind. No Sweet! He could only imagine with horror what the response would be should he forget himself and say that Mr. Spike was sweet!

Fortunately for his own peace of mind Mr. Clem was distracted by another disaster. Mr. Spike was frowning with that deep and thoughtful concentration that characterizes the drunk and the fool, and he was tipping the bottle over his empty glass. Time slowed as though it moved through honey. Mr. Clem and Mr. Spike waited as moisture collated within the bottle, forming into a single drop. They waited as it hung at the bottle's rim, a perfect tear that slowly stretched into a thin silver stream. They waited until it fell into the glass with a plop. Then they waited for another drop and they waited but they waited in vain.

They looked at one another - in that moment brothers, twins locked in horror – no more drop! no more plop! The bottle was empty – no – more – booze!

"b'Huh!" they shouted.

b'Huh was keeping a watchful eye on their table – the left one rotating in the socket to keep the two demons in view as he moved. The 'Fish Tank' was a self-service bar. Patrons were expected to fetch and carry their own orders but there were no other patrons present. He picked up the bottle he had set aside and carried it over to the distraught duo and plonked it onto their table. Mr. Spike simply sneered as befit a vampire of his age but Mr. Clem was raised to be a gentleman. "You're alright, b'Huh!"

b'Huh snorted and walked back to the bar and waited for the drug to take effect.

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Mr. Spike was confused by the pounding. It seemed to come from both within his head and without and it took him some time to separate the palpitation of pain throbbing in his head from the ponderous pattern of an arm thumping on the bar.

He became further aware of the world in bits and chunks – his ear pressed to the table as though he were listening to it, one arm wrapped about his head, the other sprawled laxly in his lap. Then Mr. Clem – both arms spread out, face down on the table making moans and mumbles that were muffled against the tabletop. For long moments, Mr. Spike watched – hypnotized - as a bubble of drool formed in the corner of Mr. Clem's mouth, and was joined by another and yet another before bursting. Then Mr. Spike became aware of the murmur of voices buzzing at his ear like a bothersome fly. Chanting...?

"Hey!" "Barkeep!" "What's it take to get a drink around here?!"

Full awareness burst upon Mr. Spike's brain with the force of a bomb exploding. He sat up from his slump with a start that shocked Mr. Clem to wakefulness. He shoved his hands in and out of his pockets, peered under the table, rose up to look over the table, then stood up and examined all the close environs. A stream of words burst forth from his lips and you do not wish to hear them repeated here, dear readers, for they were foul and filthy and frankly suggested requirements and positions that were anatomically impossible.

"b'Huh." Mr. Clem was fully awake by this time and the severity of the situation had become clear to him. Their money was gone. b'Huh had drugged them and done a runner with their money. Mr. Clem had neither the talent nor the breadth of vocabulary that allowed Mr. Spike his extended outburst and he contented himself with, "That filthy cow."

Mr. Spike reined in his anger, uncomfortably aware that he had drawn the interest of the angry patrons. Scowling faces and sensory organs began moving his way.

"Spike!" "What's that traitor doin' in here?" "Bet he ate b'Huh!"

Mr. Clem - ever the facilitator – jumped to his feet and announced, "Uh... didn't I hear someone say it was an open bar?"

Although violence is the meat of demon desire, alcohol is the drink and far and few between are the demons that would pass up free booze. Mr. Spike was forgotten in the rush to the bar, each demon eager to get free libation before someone declared the idea mistaken and attempted to protect the merchandise. They swarmed over the bar likes bees on honey and mere moments passed before the first fight erupted. Despite the well-stocked bar, arguments broke out over which bottle would go to which demon and who could fill their glass first. By the time Mr. Spike and Mr. Clem reached the door four tables, five chairs and fifteen bottles were either in flight across the room or lay smashed upon the floor.

Once outside Mr. Spike shook his head to remove the remnants of the drug from his mind and he massaged the bridge of his nose to clear his nostrils. He drew a great snuffle of air into his nose, a great sampling of all the scents that saturated the area and he sniffed them into his nasal passages. To his great bewilderment he found himself befuddled by a strange, foul odor that clung to his nostrils and overpowered all the other scents. Again and again, here and there, to and fro he snuffled and sniffed and could smell nothing save that single foul odor. He could smell nothing else and with every useless sniff b'Huh was getting further away with his money. The anger that had fueled him until that moment drained away with a suddenness that left Mr. Spike feeling empty. He berated himself.

"Well you've done it now haven't you. How's Dawn gonna feel when I turn up empty handed... what's she gonna say... what would Buffy say...?"

As if this last thought were more than could be borne Mr. Spike turned to run, uncertain of any purpose other than to do something - what would be determined as opportunity dictated. Herein lay one of Mr. Spike's greatest strengths. When no guiding plan could be conceived for lack of information - where others would settle down to research and to discuss the possibilities - Mr. Spike would follow his instincts instead. When others had finished their research and finalized their discussion and arrived at the correct conclusion they would initiate their solution only to find that Mr. Spike had come and gone and they had nothing left to resolve. For now his instincts instructed him to search every crevice of Sunnydale, beat information out of every demon and smell until his nose bled. He had b'Huh's odor locked into his brain and if he could just get away from this foul odor he was certain to find b'Huh's spoor.

Mr. Clem observed Mr. Spike's panic with a generous heaping of his own. Why was Spike not able to find a scent? Was it that smell? What was that smell? Mr. Clem realized that Mr. Spike was about to depart and ran hastily in his direction. He was ucertain how far he could trust the vampire. If Mr. Spike found b'Huh and Mr. Clem were not there, he quite suspected that he would never see his half of the money again.

"Hey! Don't leave me behind! I want to watch you pull every one of b'Huh's seven stomachs out through his nose. The thief!" Mr. Clem's feet became entangled in something and he fell facedown with a great thump. Mr. Spike was impatient to be on his quest and had no intention of waiting for Mr. Clem but the thud drew his attention. When he saw the reason for Mr. Clem's fall he stopped and his jaw dropped and his anger and his uncertainty were for the moment overcome by a sense of shock.

"What the...? That's Mafdet!"

Mr. Clem scooted back in startlement but his was a caring nature and he approached the prone form of Mafdet quickly checking for wounds and injury. After a moment he said, "Not sure what did it, but looks like she's dead."

Mr. Spike had been looking for a silk and velvet lined cage. He had been looking for any indication that the kitten had run free. He had been looking for a silent, still body other than Mafdet's. He had found none of these things and wondered.

"Where's the kitten?"

TBC...


	10. Chapter 10

Title: The Sorrowful Tale Of Miss Kitty Fantastico 10/?

Author: Molossus

Rating: PG 13

Archive: Anywhere, just let me know so that I can do the Snoopy dance.

Summary: Miss Kitty isn't dead. What really happened and what do Spike, Dawn, a kitten and nose hairs have to do with it?

Disclaimer: Joss Whedon and ME own the universe that Spike adorns. I just worship there.

Note: I want to thank my beta Jenny for helping me to work the snarls out of the twisted braid I have woven here. Any mistakes are mine, she probably told me to take them out and I was too stubborn to do it.

Email: 

Previously: Miss Dawn approaches her fifteenth birthday. Mr. Spike, having no funds, can think of no way to buy her the crossbow she wants until he stumbles across a kitten whose resemblance to Miss Kitty Fantastico leads him to conceive of a plan. He heads to the 'Fish Tank' where he has a confrontation with Ph'ulup'thhButt, a demon he has never met before. After examining the kitten Mr. Clem agrees to contact a clan of cat-worshipping demons, who have previously expressed interest in Miss Kitty and to tell them that he has one of Miss Kitty's kittens. The cat-worshippers send a representative, Miss Mafdet, who accepts the kitten and pays them a goodly sum of money for her. Mr. Spike and Mr. Clem are drugged by the bartender b'Huh, who steals the money, however, and when Mr. Spike and Mr. Clem run out looking for b'Huh, they find Miss Mafdet lying on the ground and the kitten is gone.

CHAPTER 10

There is much discussion among experts of the supernatural concerning the dual face of the vampire, the fiercely fanged and the human facial features. Prevailing thought suggests that the human semblance, the manifestation of the person who was killed, is but a façade - a charade that the vampire is able to don as though a partygoer at a masquerade. They would have it that the true vampire is showing when the animal eyes, misshapen ridges and jutting jagged teeth are front and foremost.

Be that as it may, Mr. Spike was most often found in human face. It was his wont when with other vampires to become vampiric when he wished to mingle or impress and always when he wished to intimidate.

At other times, almost without exception, he retained his human features and so we should not be surprised that even now, when he was on the edge of panic, when anger held him in its grip, when he once again saw his dreams evaporating, his face was human, his expression morphed only by frustration and anger and despair.

Mr. Spike flagellated himself with harsh thought, feeling ashamed at his behavior. He had allowed himself to be distracted by a 'kitten'. He had tried to do things like a white hat and this was the result. b'Huh - behaving in proper demon fashion - had kept his eye sharp for the occasion, had stepped in and taken advantage of Spike's weakness. Spike's anger with b'Huh was nothing compared to his anger at himself. He held little rancor at b'Huh for stealing the money - this was something any good demon would do - but rather he hated b'Huh for the humiliation his action caused.

A resolution formed in Mr. Spike's heart and it was not to avoid the demon rum, scotch, bourbon or tequila but rather to avoid undemonlike behavior. Like a child who expects a reward for good behavior, Mr. Spike now felt betrayed by fortune and decided that if he were to accomplish his goal, he would once again need to fall back on old competencies.

A vampire's nervous system does not function like a human's, it being comprised of magickal energy and every nerve in a vampire's body is designed to vibrate with violence, to flood the vampire with fury and send him careening into a frenzy of bloodshed. Mr. Spike had learned to keep this pulsating urge pushed to the back of his mind lest he be carried away and attack a human. He now let it bleed forth, let the fury feed on his mind and let himself be devoured. His mind burned with a clear crystal flame. He felt good.

Feeling now on familiar ground, feeling energized, feeling strong, he considered his options.

Forget the kitten, find b'Huh - choke the bastard on some of the smaller bills in the stash.

Forget b'Huh, find the kitten - hope she was still alive, and convince the cat-worshipers Mafdet was killed before he and Clem were paid.

Forget it all - just go steal a crossbow like he should have in the first place.

No, stealing a crossbow wasn't enough now. He'd do that only if the other two scenarios failed - settling with b'Huh was now a priority. Violence was now a priority. It was possible that b'Huh and the kitten were together but he couldn't count on it. He needed to focus on one and hope for the other. Despite his desire to find b'Huh he decided on a last minute search for the kitten before he left the vicinity of the 'Fish Tank'.

Mr. Spike now paid no heed to anything he saw or anything he scented, and he banished all thought. He pooled all his senses into one, becoming oblivious to all but his auditory awareness.

His efforts were rewarded when he heard a whisper, a sigh. He knew it was not the kitten but neither was it anything else he could account for. He did not question, putting curiosity aside, and he concentrated on the whisper. The whisper took shape, became a voice and Mr. Spike realized with a start that the whisper was coming from Miss Mafdet. She was still alive!

Mr. Clem and Mr. Spike knelt carefully beside Miss Mafdet's still form, both leaning close, then closer to heed her thready whisper. Her voice was little more than a breath.

"... ring ..."

"Who did this? b'Huh? The bartender?"

"no... stink... "

"Did b'Huh take the kitten?"

"no..." Miss Mafdet's chest shuddered slightly. "Ring!"

Miss Mafdet's last sound was gasped as though the wounded creature poured her remaining life's essence into the single word, as though her last thought was to convey the importance of that word, and having spoken the word - ring - she spoke no more nor would she ever again.

Having thought before that Miss Mafdet was dead, Mr. Spike and Mr. Clem remained at her side for long moments asking their questions in the vain hope that she would rally. She gave no evidence of life - no movement, no heartbeat, no breath, but neither had she when first they stumbled across her and they believed it possible that she would once again show signs of life. They could not wait with patience for long however. Thoughts of b'Huh and their money gave them a sense of urgency that would not be stilled. Mr. Clem spoke first.

"She mentioned a ring. Think I remember seeing one earlier." He lifted Miss Mafdet, not without some consideration, and Mr. Spike examined her paw-like hands.

"Yeah, see it. Don't look anything special." Mr. Spike removed the ring and held it up for scrutiny. "Some kind of writing inside. Can't make it out." Mr. Spike did not protest when Mr. Clem took the ring but continued searching Miss Mafdet.

"I don't know how to read this but I've seen this script at Ordinary Joe's tattoo parlor- he's the oracle for Mafdet's clan. You find anything else?"

"No. Must be the one. Think it's worth anything?"

Mr. Clem seemed surprised at the question but he examined the ring closely before answering. "Not for the stones. I think we should take it to Ordinary Joe. He might know something about it."

"Yeah and meanwhile, b'Huh's off to Brazil and a life of ease on my money."

"Our money." If Mr. Clem's voice seemed a bit frosty it was lost on the fuming vampire.

"No sense flogging a dead horse - or cat. We can deal with the ring later. I'm after b'Huh." Mr. Spike stood with abruptness. His hands moved over and over in a curious spasmodic motion as though he were squeezing something between them, something large and soft and muscular, something that resembled the neck of a bull-like demon. Now that Miss Mafdet was no longer a source of information he was eager to move, to do, to hunt. When Mr. Clem spoke and attracted his attention he found it annoying. He stayed and he listened but he wondered about the taste and color of Mr. Clem's blood.

"You know, Mafdet wanted us to have this ring. It must mean something..."

"Yeah, yeah. Probably from her sweetheart... there's no time. You do what you want." Mr. Spike turned to go even as he spoke.

"Mafdet'sclanmightpayustotrackdownthekitten." Mr. Clem knew his audience and was well aware that he must speak fast or lose Mr. Spike's attention. The vampire might have treated him with unusual consideration earlier, and his attachment to the kitten might have seemed sweet, but this vampire that stood before him now exhibited no trace of such atypical behavior. The blue eyes that bore into his with such cold consideration belonged to a killer.

At least Mr. Spike was still listening.

"If we take the ring to Ordinary Joe's then we can offer to track down the kitten. Make them p-pay." Mr. Clem's nervousness grew. Mr. Spike was eyeing him as though he were a minion and vampires were not noted for their kindness to their minions. "Look, it just seems like a long shot going after b'Huh if you can't even get his scent. It may not pay as well but if we go with the ring we might end up with something."

Mr. Spike stood for a few moments contemplating his hands, which were still squeezing as though trying out the throttling of b'Huh, testing to see how it would feel. Mr. Clem was not surprised when Mr. Spike shook his head in disagreement.

"No. It'd give b'Huh too much time to get away. We'll separate - you go see the ordinary bloke and I'll look for b'Huh. He's probably headed for the docks so I'm goin' in that direction unless I can pick up his scent."

Mr. Clem spoke now with uncharacteristic bravado - strangely enough because he was afraid. He was afraid of Mr. Spike's escalating vampire mode and he was afraid he would end up with no money at all. He didn't have Mr. Spike's hunting capabilities and he wasn't sure he could trace the kitten on his own. He didn't believe Mr. Spike had much chance of finding b'Huh but if he did Mr. Clem intended to be present. Any trust he had in Mr. Spike was now gone. "Hey. Half that money's mine. How do I know you won't just take it and run?"

The look that Mr. Spike gave Mr. Clem bore a decided resemblance to the look that a hungry bird gives to a tasty worm. He had not thought of taking Mr. Clem's share of the goods previously but he did now and he did not find the idea unappealing. A thought sparkled in his crystal clear mind, the thought that he could kill Mr. Clem right here and now and keep all the money for himself. His crystal clear logic applauded the thought - he could kill, he should kill. Then an image of Mr. Clem hamming up the role of the kitten-eating monster appeared in his head and his crystal clarity briefly dimmed. He shook his head - he didn't have time for this.

Mr. Clem saw the sliver of softness briefly reflected in Mr. Spike's eyes - thankfully for his own peace of mind he did not guess at the surrounding thoughts that accompanied it. Seeing the change, the momentary chink in the vampire armor, he suddenly comprehended the correct argument, knew what to say, knew how to sway Mr. Spike to his own way of thinking.

"You know Dawn'll be real sad about the kitten..."

"Dawn... Dawn will never - know - about - the kitten." Mr. Spike's cold, clear anger was flash-flooded with a rush of resentment. How dare Clem bring Dawn into this?

"S'pose so. You know she's gonna ask about her, though. Well, she seemed pretty nice - I'm sure she'll understand why you had to go after b'Huh instead."

Mr. Spike gritted his teeth as Mr. Clem continued. "You know, we could head toward Ordinary Joe's tattoo parlor and you could keep your sniffer goin' - if you pick up b'Huh's scent we go for it, otherwise, we could see what's the what with the ring... and he is an oracle. Ordinary Joe. If the clan won't pay up maybe he could help us - for a cut."

The logic of Mr. Clem's arguments warred with the logic of the vampire bloodlust that burned in Mr. Spike's veins. Mr. Clem was making sense but Mr. Spike did not want sense. He wanted blood. He wanted to bash and slash and make things bleed. Mr. Clem wanted Mr. Spike to be weak. See how things went instead of making things happen. Ask for help instead of demanding it.

But Mr. Spike knew that Miss Dawn would ask about the kitten and he did not lie to Miss Dawn. She would ask and he would tell her and he would get the look. If he didn't get the crossbow he would get the look. If he got the crossbow he would still get the look. He was going to have to try and find the kitten.

Mr. Spike decided if he were going to do things the 'right' way he might as well do them right. "Let's take Mafdet into the 'Fish Tank.' We can put her into cold storage - clan might want her body. With all the booze flowing there won't be anyone sober enough to bother it."

Mr. Clem blinked and then he smiled and he helped Mr. Spike carry the body inside.

TBC...


	11. Chapter 11

Title: The Sorrowful Tale Of Miss Kitty Fantastico 11?  
Author: Molossus Rating: PG 13 Archive: Anywhere, just let me know so that I can do the Snoopy dance.  
Summary: Miss Kitty isn't dead. What really happened and what do Spike, Dawn, a kitten and nose hairs have to do with it?  
Disclaimer: Joss Whedon and ME own the universe that Spike adorns. I just worship there. Note: I want to thank my beta Jenny for helping me to work the snarls out of the twisted braid I have woven here. Any mistakes are mine, she probably told me to take them out and I was too stubborn to do it.  
Email: 

CHAPTER 11

The kitten was but a tiny kitten and her weapons were small. Nonetheless, she was a clever cat and she chose her target well. She sank her tiny claws into tender nose hairs and tiny teeth followed. She was a tiny burr burrowing, biting, bothering. Ph'ulup'thhButt fumbled furiously at the kitten and the scent of mackerel perfumed the air as (s)he stepped in the untouched plate of Seafood Delight. Time and time and time again (s)he grabbed, groped, grasped only for the kitten to slip away. 

Then, all of a sudden the kitten was seized with a malaise of weariness, a sudden seizure, not quite pain but rather a dull leaden ache. The energy leached from her body as though it seeped into the concrete floor below her. Ph'ulup'thhButt honked with satisfaction and took advantage of the kitten's disorientation to sweep her into the cage once more.

Although the kitten was clever she was but a cat and she did not hope or dream of rescue as a human would. Nonetheless, firm within her mind was locked the yearning for the scent, the sight, the stroke of the only person she loved. Misery welled into her eyes, green dulled into gray and the source of that desolation was the desire to be with Mr. Spike. Each miserable mew she uttered was an utterance of his name. The coat that Mr. Spike had groomed to such immaculate gleaming was knotted and lackluster; a counterpoint to her wretchedness within. She did not know how to hope so she simply hunkered down in her misery and yearned for Mr. Spike.

Mr. Clem led Mr. Spike into one of the demon neighborhoods that were dotted throughout Sunnydale.

A pervading air of abandonment lay upon the buildings, boarded up and dusty windowed. Here and there a weathered sign swung above a door top but little else was there to signal that any business survived and thrived in this place - during the day. At night all manner of strange creatures wandered to and fro. Multicolored lights of mystical origin strobed in irregular fashion and the sounds of demon language issued forth in hoots and honks and whistles that blended into an outlandish music.

Mr. Spike had ceded to the wisdom of Mr. Clem's design but still he was deep in vampire bloodlust and while thus maddened he viewed all as through a narrow lens - prey to be killed, a foe to be fought, a superior strength to give way to. A rare few he labeled family, though this did not grant them immunity to threat of violence.

When Mr. Spike followed Mr. Clem into the garish and dank parlor his gameface surged forth - Ordinary Joe was human. Prey! Mr. Spike bit down into the flesh of his own tongue and sucked at his own blood and stared at Ordinary Joe with unblinking, yellow eyes.

Ordinary Joe placed his needle tip with infinite care - a Flayjack's wing was a lacework of gristly fibrous stuff, tough but thin and it required the most deft of touches to pierce yet not pierce through. He neither ceased his work nor glanced up at the new visitors to his shop though he sensed their presence and aura and unease of mind. "Only do vampires by appointment. Gotta special order the inks."

"Not here to get tattooed."

At the sound of the voice Ordinary Joe started and the Flayjack bellowed as the needle pierced through but Ordinary Joe paid no heed. He swung around to see the owner of that voice and upon his face was writ a most curious expression of wonderment, incredulity and amusement intermingled.

He blinked and he stared and he did not speak.

"What are you lookin' at?"

"Now that is a question I'd love to hear answered. I can't help you."

"What the blood... oh, you are an oracle aren't you? Don't even know the question but the answer's always the same. Can't help." Mr. Spike strode stiff-legged, placed his face close up to Ordinary Joe's. His blood-smeared tongue slid forth as though testing the air but if he expected to smell fear there was none. Ordinary Joe simply blinked and smiled.

"Dude, I would like to help you. Never seen one quite like you before... but... not my place. You have to take responsibility."

Mr. Clem, well versed in his role as the peacemaker, now came forward seeking to forestall further argument. "We're actually here to see the Mau. Got a bit of a problem with that Bastet business. But then you probably know that already."

"Yeah. Bummer for you guys." Ordinary Joe pulled his gaze from Spike's face as though with difficulty and turned to Mr. Clem. "Head on up. Candles are in the usual place."

"Come on, Spike. Mau's upstairs."

Mr. Spike did not wish to go. He was watching the pulse in Ordinary Joe's throat and had fallen into a fantasy where he sucked and savaged there, gloried in the brilliance of the blood, drank deeply...

"Spike, come on."

Mr. Spike was pulled back to the real world sharply, aware that he had been moments from an actual attack. He gazed for one more moment into Ordinary Joe's eyes seeking a flash of fear, some sustenance not blood, but a boost to the ego. He was disappointed. Ordinary Joe's eyes had softened from wonder to an expression perilously close to pity. Mr. Spike turned away in disgust and forced away his demon face.

Ordinary Joe watched the two ascend the stairs and whispered in a voice they were not meant to hear. "Really wish I could help you, man. You want it so bad but you're taking the wrong road again." Perhaps with his vampire hearing Mr. Spike should have heard these words but perhaps he did not truly wish to hear them.

Mr. Spike was overcome with a sense of disorientation. He thought they were at the top of the stairs but saw there were yet seven steps to be taken. Though he disliked magic he was no stranger to it and suspected he was about to enter a magically hidden place, possibly even another dimension. He considered descending the stairs but when Mr. Clem continued without pause he followed.

When the landing at the second top of stairs was reached Mr. Clem moved to a basket that contained candles. Hundreds of candles all used, burnt to stubbins, small remnants that would burn only briefly. He pawed through the selection carefully, looking for the longest length, examining the quality of wax, the extent of the wick. Finally he chose, not the longest but the finest of beeswax.

"We're going to have to talk fast. None of these will burn long. Mau must not be in the mood for discussion."

"Not following, mate."

"It's not important. Just let me do the talking ok? I've dealt with Mau before."

"Sure." Mr. Spike could do the silent thing, at least as long as Mr. Clem was asking the right questions. Mr. Clem gave him a look, laden with doubt, but lead him to a door without further argument.

The room inside was dimly lit, candle-cast shadows dominating the light from their flame. Mr. Clem went to the back and set his candle in a dish. He removed a match from a box nearby and lit the wick. The new light flared and Mr. Spike saw a bronze life-size statue of a sleeping cat. Mr. Clem pulled the ring from his pocket and read the inscription. All the while he stroked the statue as though it were a living thing.

As we have said before, Mr. Spike was familiar with magic and although he seethed inside with impatience he stayed silent. He closed his eyes and sought composure. His blood demanded blood. b'Huh was fleeing further with every moment that passed and he yearned for action with every fiber of his being. This was his decision though. He had agreed to go this route. He had to give it time. No sense going off half-cocked.

"Yes, vampire. You must think before acting."

Mr. Spike's eyes flew wide open at the sound of a feminine voice and he stared at the lithe and lovely feline that arched against the weight of Mr. Clem's hand. He remembered his agreement and kept silent, allowing Mr. Clem to do the speaking.

"Hey, Mau. Nice to see you again. That kitten that we talked about. There's been a problem."

"Yes, we hear her cries. She calls for you vampire. Will you respond?"

Mr. Clem spoke quickly, not wishing Mr. Spike to answer. "Well, see we handed over the kitten to Mafdet but then we found her dead. We don't know where the kitten is."

"Mafdet is here. She thanks you for preserving her body for proper ritual. You must bring the kitten here."

"But we don't know where she is. Someone stole our money. We'll come up empty-handed if we spend time looking for the kitten. We want to, really, but a guy's gotta be practical and go with the money. We did our end delivering the kitten and came here as a favor to you but we've gotta get going. All that money..."

"At least you do not concern yourself overly about the loss of money." Mau's voice was throaty with amusement.

"Sorry about that. But you see our dilemma. Now maybe if you guys were willing to pay for us to find the kitten?" Mr. Clem peered at the candle, which was sputtering. It was burning even faster than he had anticipated.

"The responsibility is the vampire's. He must bring the kitten here."

It had not escaped Mr. Spike's notice that the candle was burning with unnatural speed or that Mr. Clem was disturbed. Once again he felt he was being cheated after attempting to do the right thing and he could hold back no longer. "I did what I was responsible for. Delivered that kitten and even came here. You want us to go lookin' for the kitten you pay us. Otherwise we're just wasting our time."

"You move heaven and earth for your goal. You must take responsibility for what you cause. Bring the kitten here."

Mr. Clem attempted to save the day. "Does that mean you'll pay us if we do?"

"Bring the kitten here."

Bronze flash-froze Mau's form and all candles in the room guttered and failed.

Mr. Clem said, "Damn."

Mr. Spike slammed through the door and Mr. Clem scrambled to follow, moving his bulk with dangerous speed down the narrow stairway. Even without his broader frame as impediment Mr. Clem did not have vampire speed and he was being swiftly left behind. "Wait up! Maybe we can still talk Ordinary Joe into helping."

"You try. I'm going after b'Huh." Mr. Spike spared no glance at Ordinary Joe as he passed, moving single-mindedly to the street outside.

He paused, feeling the slight breeze wafting over his skin. He inhaled, knowing he would not find the scent he sought but he did smell salt. His mind raced. The docks! b'Huh was crafty, he'd know Spike was on his trail. He'd plan on getting out of Sunnydale as quickly as he could. How many ships had sailed while Spike had been pussyfooting around?

Mr. Spike utilized all the speed available to a vampire, recharged with energy now that that he was moving with purpose.

Mr. Clem reached the street and was not surprised to see the vampire a tiny, distant figure, smaller and smaller and gone. He grumbled and grit his teeth and then he sighed and at that moment Mr. Clem resigned himself to being no richer than ever before. Life wasn't so bad as it was. No use getting het up over something you couldn't change. He headed back into the tattoo parlor. Something would need to be done about Mafdet's body and he wanted to make sure he hadn't alienated the Bastets.

TBC... 


	12. Chapter 12

Note: I want to give special thanks to Moe H.is O.wn S.elf for stepping up as my new beta. I am very excited to have his help. I want to thank Jenny for all the help she has given me and I hope things get better for her soon. 

CHAPTER 12

Mr. Spike was content to let his feet have their way for the moment, let them pound into the ground, let them impel him toward the docks, let them carry him away from Mau and Mr. Clem and Ordinary Joe. He let his mind drift, devolve into fantasy as he ran thus, let it pull forth the most vicious of his vampire memories. He savored the selection, choosing from among them the bloodiest and most agonizing as candidates for the torture of b'Huh.

At one moment it was not there and then it was - a smell, such a strong smell that impinged upon his senses - he nearly stumbled and he pulled his mind from that dreamlike state into which it had fallen. The scent - that same foul piercing odor that had clung to his nostrils at the 'Fish Tank'. He reduced his run to a walk and slowed until he stood still, applying himself to a study of the wind, tasting it on his tongue, and he swore. Following the scent would lead him away from the docks.

Why did a bloke always have to choose? Why couldn't things just work out? Why couldn't he just get to the docks without questioning himself?

His heedless sprint had brought him to the outskirts of Shadyhill cemetery. He massaged his eyes wearily, stood with bowed head and hunched shoulders, his posture an outward indication of his inner uncertainty. Only himself and the dead here - that would be only the dead then. Not likely to find any answers besides the ones he already had. Why was he even hesitating? Standing here? What was he waiting for?

He closed his eyes for a moment and when he opened them his eyes were directed to the headstone that stood in his path, the name engraved there. Joyce Summers. Something seemed to twist within Mr. Spike's mind as he gazed upon her name, a turn of the kaleidoscope, a new organization of old thoughts.

Joyce would have rescued the kitten even if Dawn were to miss out on a birthday present. She would simply get her daughter the present at a later time.

Dawn would understand if she didn't get the crossbow - why had he thought she wouldn't? She would be disappointed for herself but happy for the kitten.

You might think this a simple understanding, easily arrived at, but it was a breakthrough for Mr. Spike. His darling Drusilla, his dark demon princess would have demanded he save the kitten, attain the crossbow and serve up b'Huh's head on a platter stuffed with every last scrap of the money and that it all be done before breakfast. Failure on any count would have resulted in bloody, protracted punishment. Worse, she would have withheld her love and affection for days.

But Dawn was not Drusilla. If he didn't get the money, if he couldn't buy a crossbow, Dawn would understand!

His shoulders straightened and he took in a great breath of air. Mr. Spike didn't recognize the feeling that settled like a gentle cloud upon him. You would recognize it as peace and he would have been disturbed if he had realized it was such. He turned himself away from the docks and that putrid scent seemed lovely to him now, foul as it was. Mau would get her kitten and the kitten would get a happy home. He would see to it.

Frothat the Farpather exited from Ph'ulup'thhButt's cave with rapidity, rubbing at the stinging welts that swelled upon his face and arms. He moved his ponderous head ponderously, and pondered the fickle nature of fate. Ph'ulup'thhButt had made sweet sounding promises; promises to pay him well for his services if he contacted the Bastets and delivered their answer. Frothat pondered further. Perhaps he was simply being unfair to Ph'ulup'thhButt. He was a far-range telepath, not an empathic demon and he did not comprehend the motivations of others. Perhaps a Phlemah'k simply thought that being seized, shaken like a salt container and pelted repeatedly with nose hairs was a good payment. Next time Frothat was going to get specific details concerning the form of recompense and the manner of its delivery.

Ph'ulup'thhButt wallowed in the throes of despair, puffed up and bloated after the manner of (her)his kind. Salty pellets of self-pity rose upon (her)his skin and pattered upon the floor. (S)he had been so certain that the Bastets would pay ransom for the kitten. Wasn't it the reincarnation of a Slayer? Wasn't it a vital part of their goddess breeding plan? (S)he had been patient. (S)he had tried making nice with the little edible but it wouldn't eat, wouldn't play. All it would do was cry, causing Ph'ulup'thhButt's poor injured nose hairs to stick together like an overheated bag of gummy worms. Now, after spending nearly a whole day playing kitty maid, the Bastets weren't going to pay up. All of (her)his plans were coming to naught. It was a cruel, cruel universe...

Oh well, at least the kitten would make a good snack.

Phlemah'k's were a practical race and now that Ph'ulup'thhButt was over (her)his snit-fit (s)he decided (s)he was hungry. (S)he rattled the cage savagely, savoring the possibility that the kitten would be frightened and thus a little spice would be added to her taste. The kitten hissed and spat instead, evading Ph'ulup'thhButt's grasp and (s)he eyed the kitten with disfavor. Its matted coat and dull eyes didn't look flavorful. Misery wasn't Ph'ulup'thhButt's favorite seasoning but (s)he supposed it would do. (S)he opened her ingestive tube intending to pop the tidbit inside for mulching.

Dear readers, it was a fabulous fable, a fantasy that Mr. Spike spun upon the spot, calling this kitten the reincarnation of a slayer, but Mafdet had spoken truly when she referred to the kitten's warrior spirit. Though she was but a miserable little mite facing horrendous death at the jaws of a hideous demon she did not intend to go down easily. She had noted well her enemy's weakness in earlier battle and once again she plied tiny teeth and tiny claws with a will. Survival wasn't her goal but rather she acted out of pure sheer savagery and the desire for blood.

Her enemy was going to bear her wounds forever!

With all her mitey might she sank her weapons into sensitive nose hairs and... shredded. Ph'ulup'thhButt honked and bellowed. (S)he dropped the kitten and the weight caused her to slide down the nose hairs, slicing furrows all the way from the top to the bottom. Ph'ulup'thhButt shook (her)his nose hairs, shook them again and again, whipping them about with incredible force. The kitten flew across the cave floor where she thudded against the wall and lay still. Ph'ulup'thhButt grasped (her)his nose hairs carefully and began staunching the blood.

(S)he was surprised when (s)he was assailed - seized with brute force and shoved into the air and sent spinning like the chaff thrown from a tornado, slammed up against the other cave wall, crumpled and crushed by the collision with solid rock. Busy with the kitten, (s)he had not seen Mr. Spike enter her domain, not seen the anger in his eyes, not been prepared for his attack.

The kitten knew. Groggy from her malaise and mistreatment, stunned by the impact of her body flung against stone, still she knew. The moment Mr. Spike entered she knew his smell, his shape, his very spirit and even though her body could little react, her mind quickened with joy and mews which had once been made in misery became a cry of welcome. Put yourself into this creature's heart, who had no capability of understanding the larger issues of life. Consider her feelings, that took into account nothing other than her own experience and yearnings. Consider her warrior's spirit, her warrior's passion. In her hour of misery she did not want food, or water or any comfort save the presence of Mr. Spike and he was here.

Mr. Spike took care as he collected the kitten into his hands. There was no blood, no sign of broken bone or severe injury but he knew from her limited movement and lifeless coat, from the dimming of her eyes that the kitten was gravely ill and he knew, familiar of death that he was, that she was dying.

He placed the pollywog in her favorite place, under his chin and she stretched her paws on either side of his neck and lavished him with loving sweeps of her tongue until at last she was too weary to continue. The sound of her purrs filled his ears, and filled the cave, a happy contented sound and Mr. Spike wondered at the feeling that swept through him. A long time had passed since anyone had shown such joy simply to be in his presence, and he would have given much to change what he knew would soon come.

For all that they are worlds apart there is little distance between death and life. A breath and then a cessation of breath. We enter this world with indignation, loudly crying out with pain and fright but our actual finite moment of death is quiet. The dead lie still and wait to catch the next rung of the wheel, or to be cradled in the arms of God, or rest in sweet oblivion, while our world drags us on to continue in our pain and fright. The kitten's death was not painful. Her injuries were severe enough but she would have rallied save for a heart that was physically flawed from the moment of her birth. Her spiritual heart, her warrior's heart was strong but the heart beating in her chest could no longer maintain life. 

The kitten lay content, curled upon Mr. Spike's shoulder and she purred happiness into his ear and then she was quiet.

Mr. Spike was not prepared for the pain he felt upon her passing. He had not yet accepted within himself that he even liked the kitten, had not completely fought past his vampire nature and masculine self-image to admit to such softness. His emotions were still raw from the death of Miss Buffy Summers and the kitten's death was a lashing of salt in that red, red wound.

Once again he had failed. Someone had cared for him and depended on him and he had failed her.

Ph'ulup'thhButt stirred to consciousness and sat up and Mr. Spike took notice. He had made many plans, envisioned many scenarios, intended horrible tortures for b'Huh. And here dear readers, we will draw the curtain for Ph'ulup'thhButt's death was neither swift nor easy nor painless.

Vampires know, more than any other, that death is not an end, merely a change. Once Mr. Spike allowed his rage to bleed forth, vented his violence and gloried in Ph'ulup'thhButt's blood, once he had occasion to think without intervention of sorrow, he realized that it was still necessary for him to deliver the kitten to Ordinary Joe's. Mau had been aware of the kitten while she was still alive; there had been some connection. That meant there was probably more to the Bastets' beliefs than just fancy. His kitten hadn't gone through whatever rituals were required but it might not be too late for her ascension to another plane of existence.

There would be magic involved and there would be a price. Mr. Spike, unaware that the kitten's heart - though a warrior's heart - was flawed, believed he might have saved her had he come to her rescue sooner.

He would take the body to Mau and he would pay the price - he would see that his kitten was made a goddess yet.

TBC... 


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter 13**

Attitude is an ephemeral thing, a construct of the mind, a paradox composed of conflicting opposites - faith in oneself and a lack of faith in oneself. One conceives of the nature that one wishes to show the world and clothes oneself in that seeming. Attitude can add inches to one's height, dimension to one's appearance and gravity to one's words.

Mr. Spike had left Ordinary Joe's tattoo parlor with his attitude intact but he had allowed his human sensibilities to overcome his vampire veneer, and though in reality this made him something more than a mere vampire, he thought it made him less. Left without faith in himself, with only the lack, attitude became act and he was exposed to the world.

Thus the vampire that now returned to Ordinary Joe's was a changed one and the change, though internal, was visible in outward manner. A ruler might have shown his height to be the same, but in the measure of a man's eyes, Mr. Spike was smaller. The appearance that had demanded attention, now seemed to shrink from it. His words, though harshly phrased, were softly spoken. "Need to see her Highness. That gonna be a problem?"

Ordinary Joe simply stuck out his thumb and pointed it toward the stairs. He did not speak but Mr. Spike could see sympathy and sorrow shining in his eyes. He did not note the respect that tempered those more tender emotions and that was because he could conceive of no reason why he should be respected. He had failed again.

His snarl - a threat instead of thanks - was a half-hearted sop to his image and even he was unsure whether he was trying to impress Ordinary Joe or himself.

He was deeply aware of the magic upon the stairs. Mr. Spike was a creature of magic himself - his very existence was not possible without its presence - yet he had a deep distrust of its nature and its practitioners. What if Mau wouldn't listen to his request? What if there was no basket of candles? What if all the candles were useless lumps, slivers of wax with the wicks burnt away.

Vampires need not breathe nor hold their breath but Mr. Spike was given to performing both acts, and he now breathed a deep breath and released it with a dramatic flourish. The basket was there, exactly where it should be. Within it sat a single candle, formed from fine beeswax, with a well-shaped wick. Evidently Mau was in the mood to talk.

No sooner had that cloud of doubt passed from his mind than he remembered the ring. Would he need the inscription? He wasn't even sure where the ring was.

His hesitation was momentary. He was afraid his request would be rejected and, as always, when Mr. Spike was afraid, he cast away all consideration and confronted the thing he feared as promptly as possible. He wasn't about to delay his visit simply to facilitate ceremony and supplication.

Mau would either accept or reject his request.

The room was dark and he made his way to the statue by memory. Choosing not to grope for the box of matches, he gently laid the kitten's body beside the statue and lit the candle with his own lighter. Moments passed and there was no movement save the flicker of the candlelight and no sound save the susurration of his breathing.

Mr. Spike felt a moment of panic. If Mau was no longer interested in the kitten... No, he wasn't even going to even consider that possibility. Maybe the inscription was a necessary part of the magic. He'd just get it and come back. Who had the ring? Clem? Maybe Ordinary Joe.

He realized the candle was burning - he was losing precious time. He reached out to snuff it and an image rose in his mind - Mr. Clem stroking the statue. Couldn't hurt to try.

He slid his hand over the slick bronze, remembering the kitten and her itchy ears and he applied the lesson he had learned. The statue's surface was smooth and cool to his touch and then, so suddenly that he could not tell the moment of change, it became both soft and rough at once, warm textured fur, and a living cat leaned into the palm of his hand.

"Your kitten taught you well, Vampire."

Mr. Spike was embarrassed and he pulled his hands back and placed them in his pockets. He liked the sensual feel of the fur sliding against his skin and might start stroking again if he did not restrain his hands.

"You know why 'm here. Take her to heaven or suck up her soul or whatever it is you godly types do."

"A kitten cannot become a demigod so easily." Mau looked directly into Mr. Spike's eyes and for a moment he thought he could see through them, as though he were peering through a window and on the other side he saw something - he could not grasp what - but it was beautiful. When Mau looked away he felt his eyes flood with tears. His chest hurt. If he didn't know that his heart was a dead thing, he might have thought it ached for something it could never have.

Somehow one of his hands had left his pocket and was rubbing Mau's ear. Her rough purrs made the very room vibrate and then she pulled back and grasped his hand between her paws to hold it still. "The kitten was not properly initiated. We can see her soul at the gates but she must enter of her own will to be accepted within. Without the ritual she will not understand what to do."

"That's easy enough. We do the ritual. "

"You cannot. You are corrupt, soulless." Mau arched her head into Mr. Spike's hand, marking it with the musk gland that lay betwixt the ear and the eye, as though to deny her own words. "I cannot remain on this plain long enough and my oracle does not have that knowledge. The ritual must be performed by midnight tomorrow or the soul will be lost. You must deliver the kitten to my priests. There is a place - Greenwood Park."

"I know it. Over to Sunnyvale."

"Go to my oracle. He will give you instructions and means to keep the body preserved until it is time for you to deliver her."

"What? What am I s'posed to do with the body? I can just leave it here and your priests can come get it." Mr. Spike was not certain that he could bear to keep the kitten for so long, her body a silent witness to his guilt.

"Too far. They cannot make it here in time for the ritual." Mau looked at him again. "The kitten will know that you are near. You are the one that she chose and it is only mete that you are present as she begins her new journey. Did she choose unwisely?"

Mr. Spike shook his head slowly. "No."

She did choose unwisely though - the pollywog. He wasn't very good at taking care of his girls.

Thinking of his other girl, Mr. Spike decided to try solving one of his problems. "Look, I came here for the kitten and that's the truth, but I did make the effort. Seems like it might be worth a quid or two."

Mau's tail twitched and she pulled away from contact with him.

The light flickered and Mr. Spike noted the length of the candle seemed suddenly shorter. Afraid that the Goddess misunderstood his motives, he spoke quickly, earnestly, allowing Mau a rare glimpse of his heart. "Money's not for me, see. Someone..." His voice lowered, became shaded with a tinge of affection, "...Dawn. I need to get somethin' for her. I just... I want to even things up. Failed the kitten. Just want to see that someone gets what she needs."

Mau's tone was soft. "I understand that it is not coin you seek. You are the one who must understand your own motives. The child means much to you but you must take responsibility."

The muscles jumped in his jaw as he restrained himself from shouting. Why did she keep saying that? "That's what I'm trying to do."

"You have come far Vampire, much farther than any have thought possible. You still do not understand the full truth behind love but I do believe the... pollywog chose wisely."

The candlelight flickered and went out. His audience with Mau was over.

He stared into the statue's eyes for long minutes, searching for more - he wasn't sure of what - and then he shook his head at his own folly. What was he waiting for? Did he think he was going to get a break? Maybe see that... place beyond her eyes again? He was a vampire and he would solve his own problems.

Ordinary Joe gave him directions, a mixture of some magical potion in a spray bottle, told him to mist the kitten's body and how often. No more complicated than keeping a houseplant. He could do that.

Dawn's party was scheduled for 07:00. He hadn't exactly been invited to it and had planned to visit late after everyone else had gone, but best he went before delivering the kitten for the ritual or he might not return in time. He'd drop by at the Summer's house, hang for a few and be on his way. Dawn probably wouldn't want him around for long when she saw he was empty-handed, anyway. He did know she'd understand. She wouldn't give him the look but... she was going to be disappointed. Maybe if he had managed to save the kitten... but he hadn't.

On the way home he smashed the front window at Ronderman's 'Guns To Go', bent the bars, and took the crossbow that shouldn't have been in the window if he wasn't meant to have it.

He'd come up with some story for the Watcher to explain the lack of a receipt. And wasn't really like he was robbin' the joint - he'd only taken the crossbow. Only exactly what he needed. He'd patrol here later - make sure vamps didn't harass the customers. Give value for value. Wasn't theft.

TBC...


	14. Chapter 14

**TSTOMKF 14 **

The perspicacious readers among you have no doubt seen a certain inclination in the chapters of this story, wherein we have visited the same habitats and followed much the same paths as we have followed before, and yet, while much is the same, always there has been something different, something to set the occurrence at odds with our prior visitations.

It is the sameness that lends weight to the difference. At this juncture of his life, Mr. Spike was, in a fashion most human, living a day-to-day existence notable for its repetitious nature. Upon his return to the crypt, he realized that the kitten had made a distinct impression and he had not expected this. He roved about his quarters, looking for something suitable in which to place the pollywog and discovered that while everything was the same -nothing was the same.

He first noticed when he picked up the towel that still bore the strings and tags left by fierce kitten claws. He grasped it in his hand and pulled it away from the sink upon which it rested and was surprised at its weight - or rather, lack thereof. A moment's reflection gave him to understand that he was expecting a kitten's weight to set the towel swinging and swaying. In comparison, the towel seemed lighter than ever it had before. The towel was not of a size large enough to cover the kitten in her entirety so Mr. Spike put it down. And then he picked it up and folded it neatly, placing it on top of the cupboard. He was of fastidious nature and did not wish to use such a snagged piece of cloth for his shower. He would find some other use for it. It did not enter his mind to drop it in the rag pile stored in the bottom cupboard.

After considering the sacrifice of one his shirts and discarding the thought - it would require that he steal another soon - he decided his canvas trash bag was the only item suitable for the kitten's repose.

There was a pungent odor that emanated from within the bag when he drew open the strings. He had been using it to store the emptied cans of chicken, and of tuna, and the wrappings from his BBQ sandwich that had been scored in his foray to 'The Wild Bill Hickory-OX Café'. Mr. Spike was a predator and did not find this scent unpleasant as a human might. He felt - with some justification - that the kitten would enjoy being enveloped in the smell. He placed the body inside and could not help comparing the dull, rough coat to the gleaming, ordered fur he had produced when grooming the kitten. He drew the strings shut, and set it upon the sarcophagus, and cursed when he caught himself smoothing the bag so there would be no uncomfortable bumps or folds. He blinked away the thought that the body seemed wrapped in a small shroud, sitting there upon the sarcophagus.

This task concluded, he continued to the chair in which it was his custom to recline whilst watching Very Important Television and he noticed the catnip mouse that lay cattywampus in its corner. He picked it up and flopped himself down. He sniffed at the mouse but was disappointed to find that the scent had gone stale. He did not remember the small rip in the seam just above the toy's tail. He did remember the last time he sat in the chair, with the kitten perched upon his chest. And he became aware of the chair. And the slight prickly feeling from the scattered catnip that now seasoned the seat. And the cushion that somehow seemed suddenly too short for his legs. And the back of the chair that had always supported his neck, but now seemed to rub uncomfortably.

This is the nature of grief when one loses someone familiar. It is as though a void is left when someone passes on and the universe must reallocate resources, shift things ever so slightly to the left or ever so slightly to the right, in order to fill the empty space. The changes are so minute they can hardly be seen-consciously. But in unguarded moments, when you have almost forgotten and you look up to a place suddenly, you see delineated on the inside of your eyes the imprint of the one you loved, and in that second as the imprint disappears, you can almost see where the universe collapses in upon itself.

Mr. Spike was keenly aware of this aspect of the universe. He had spent long hours since Miss Buffy's death catching her form from the corner of his eye. He had seen Miss Buffy standing here and there, sitting upon his sarcophagus and lying upon his bed. And seen her outline disappear as soon as he tried to focus upon it. Still, he had not expected to catch the kitten's presence thus in his peripheral view but she danced upon its edges all day long, keeping him company as he waited for nightfall so he could visit Miss Dawn.

He sat sniffing the stale catnip and dwelled upon the depths to which he had fallen - that a mere kitten could have entered his heart and thus altered his world.

Mr. Spike stopped for the seventh time since starting forth from his crypt. He stopped and looked back and wondered at his trepidation. He had anticipated his triumph all the long day, rolling in his mind a series of movie-like moments where he would present his hard-won goods to his princess, Miss Dawn.

See, Bit, did what you wanted.

Over and over he had savored the sight of her bright face, shining eyes happy and assuring him that he was the most loved of friends. Yet, now that the time approached, as he drew near to Miss Dawn's residence, he faltered.

The possibilities for failure, that he had heretofore ignored most willfully, now forced themselves to the forefront of his mind. If Mau had been there with him, speaking her warning - you must take responsibility - he could not have heard her more clearly. He still did not understand her purport but he suspected Miss Dawn's guardians would, and he worried now that his inability to comprehend her meaning would leave him open to an attack for which he could not prepare.

He began to wish he had spent more time considering clarifications rather than playing triumphal marches in his head. How would he explain the crossbow? When he had smashed the window, it had all seemed so right. Now, about to face Mr. Giles, the Watcher formerly known as Ripper, he wondered what argument he could muster that would satisfy.

A pedestrian crossing on the far side of the street stared at him briefly and hurried away.

Mr. Spike decided to move on. Standing on the sidewalk with crossbow and quarrels, carrying a sack full of dead cat, probably was not the same curiosity that it would be considered elsewhere. Probably the fine Sunnydale police force would make a point to avoid the area should someone report him. Probably he shouldn't take the chance. Lady Luck wasn't his girlfriend these days.

The door to the house was wide open and Mr. Spike shook his head. Vampires weren't the only evil creatures in this town but they were the only ones that required an invitation. He could hear laughter and voices, smell the savory scent of tacos - Rosenberg's girl cooking up Dawn's favorite dish, no doubt-the light from within spilled softly out into the night. Altogether, a tempting target for evil bent on destruction. Mr. Spike felt himself drawn. Even at his most evil he would have been pulled to a place like this. His intent would have been far different then, of course. Why the Bloody Hell didn't the Watcher, at least, keep the door shut and locked. Sometimes he suspected it wasn't just Slayers that had a death wish.

He looked at the canvas bag again. He could hardly take it inside. He didn't intend to tell Bit the kitten was dead. She was going to be a goddess, what did it matter if she were a goddess on Earth or in a heavenly dimension. No need for Dawn to know he had screwed up, let the pollywog get killed, no need... He looked around and decided to put the bag next to the porch steps, tucked under the bushes. No one would notice it there and he could retrieve it on his way out. He wasn't going to be here for long anyway.

Mr. Spike pulled a deep breath deep into his chest and held it there for a long moment. He would have been scornful at the thought that he was centering himself but would have been unable to deny needing some sense of composure. The thought occurred to him that he was bearding the beast in its den and he snorted with some small measure of humor. Bearding. Now there was a good old-fashioned term. And what beast was it he would be bearding?

The humor, slight as it was, gave him the impetus to enter the house and for a second, as he stood in the kitchen doorway, he felt he was 'home.' The feeling did not last long.

The sight of Mr. Xander Harris standing over the stove, shoveling meat into a bowl while gently pushing Miss Kitty away from his legs, rapidly dispelled any sense of belonging. Mr. Spike, feeling a bit giddy, glanced at Mr. Harris' chin. Nope, no beard. He felt something suspiciously close to a giggle forcing its way out of his throat and he wondered if perhaps the events of the last two days and the lack of sleep had begun to affect his mood. He was almost done - pass on the crossbow, take the kitten to her rest and he was done.

"What brings you here, Bloodbreath?" Mr. Harris tone was not adversarial, was perhaps even bordering on friendly but Mr. Spike was not fooled. All predators were playful at times. Vampires were Mr. Harris' natural prey, and he could move from kidder to killer within seconds. When Buffy Summers died, the Sunnydale Hellmouth was left without a guardian. Her friends, including Mr. Harris, were attempting to control the demon population. They accepted Mr. Spike's help, they needed his strength and speed, but they never forgot what he was and their relationship remained one of mutual scorn.

The humor leached away from his mind and he was weary, but he drew another steadying breath. He aligned his face into a sneer - his Scoobie mask - but his voice was as affable Mr. Harris'. "Just here to give the Bit her present. Happened I got one after all."

"And what might that present be?" Mr. Harris, as casual as could be, shifted his weight and leaned himself across the doorway that separated kitchen from dining room, his arm stretching out until his hand grasped the sill. Miss Kitty seemed to sense the escalation of tension and she ran out the door. She had been present for previous such encounters and knew they ended in loud voices and flailing limbs.

Mr. Spike squared his shoulders. He had known this was coming but had hoped to get further into the den before encountering the first guardian. "Well, that's between the Bit and me, in'it?"

"I'm thinking not so much. Especially, if that crossbow might happen to be the gift. Nice crossbow, by the way." Xander turned his head as he heard the tread of approaching feet. Mr. Giles now stood behind him.

"You're blocking the doorway, Xander. Please move." The Watcher's voice intruded into the moment and it fell upon Mr. Spike like a blow. Usually, he relished his encounters with these two men, enjoying the chance to needle and pierce their skin with pithy remark and well-placed barb. Now, he was tired. He was almost done and he wanted to be on with things.

Mr. Giles took in the scene and his glasses were off in a moment, his handkerchief whipping about the perfectly-clean lenses. "To what do we owe your presence, Spike."

Mr. Spike felt anger blossoming in his chest. "Oh come on. You know perfectly well why I'm here. Stop bein' a git, let me do my thing and I'll be out of your hair."

"Giles, I know this sounds... stupid?" Mr. Harris spread his hands, "But I think fangface here thinks he's going to give Dawn a crossbow for her birthday." He smiled, his expression remarkable for being a mixture of sweetness and cruelty. A child on the schoolground, having just learned that his greater size allowed him to knock down a schoolmate, might have worn such an expression.

"Ah yes. And a splendid crossbow it is. I'm certain you have receipt for it? Considering what I've told you would happen if I caught you stealing again."

Mr. Spike looked away from the Watcher and the muscles in his jaw rippled. We have mentioned before that element of his nature that likened him to a child, that inability to tell a straight-faced lie with aplomb. For all the evil he had done in his unlife, for all his ability to tell the truth in such a way that others could fool themselves with it, he could not tell a lie easily but must change his whole appearance and the seeming of his nature. His usual wont was to become affable and cheery when lying, speaking the words with force and energy as though to convince his listeners by the very vibrancy of his voice. He did not have the energy to put on that seeming this night, and he simply stared into a corner of the room, and mumbled as if chewing his words first would make them more palatable. "Din't steal it. Was trade."

"Trade for what, Spike?" Mr. Giles voice sharpened keenly, his voice rising only slightly yet carrying an unmistakable menace. "Surely, you don't think I'm going to take your word for that, do you?" He advanced on the vampire, drawing himself up to his utmost height to further his ability to look down on his adversary. "I can't believe..."

"What's taking so lon... SPIKE!" Miss Dawn's shrill tones had never seemed so sweet to Mr. Spike.

Mr. Harris and Mr. Giles stepped back, seeming almost to shrink in inches as they pulled back the threat they had been projecting. That threat still resided in their eyes. Mr. Spike was quite clear that he was being granted a respite and not a release.

"You got it ... you got my crossbow!" Miss Dawn, to put it quite simply was beaming as brightly as sunshine and Mr. Spike felt instantly renewed. This was his reward, this brightness, this sunshine was only kind he would ever enjoy. The kitchen light from the ceiling caught in her eyes and rather than reflecting off their surface as one might expect, they seemed to highlight depths that went on forever. He was reminded of that other place seen through the eyes of Mau... was it possible that such a place existed within a child? He shook himself to alertness. His battle hadn't ended.

The Watcher's face seemed to reflect some of Spike's weariness and his exasperation was still imprinted upon his face but his stance and the tone of his voice betrayed the affection he felt for Miss Dawn. That stance also radiated his position - Mr. Giles was not going to change his mind about the crossbow. "Dawn... I'm sorry but I can't possibly allow you to accept Spike's gift. It was extremely irresponsible for him to have brought it in the first place."

If Mr. Giles had drawn a knife across and sliced it through the air he could not have produced a more dramatic change in Miss Dawn. She still radiated but the brightness had transformed to temper. The clearness of her eyes was now marred by the tears bubbling forth, like little raindrops falling onto the surface of a pool. Miss Dawn had the Summers' temper and was still child enough to indulge it freely. "That's not fair! It's my birthday. You can't keep someone from giving me a present."

"Yes. I can. You're not old e..."

Mr. Spike could not hold back. "Look, here, Rupert. The Bit's right. You don't like me anymore 'n' I like you. Don't take it out on the girl."

"For God's sake. This isn't about you. A fourteen year old is hardly responsible enough to be handling a powerful weapon like that!"

"Most fourteen year olds don't live on the Hellmouth and aren't the Slayer's sister. Little Bit needs to be able to defend herself. She's got you, don't she? You'll teach her your Watcher stuff and I'll teach her how to actually use the thing."

"And what then? She'll take it with her to school and when she goes to visit friends? Think! If you're capable of such a thing."

"Hey!"

Miss Rosenberg and Miss MacClay entered the room, drawn by the argument and Miss Rosenberg waded into the fray. "Oh, Dawn honey. Crossbows are really hard to handle. I'm not sure I could load that model and I've been using them for years."

"Since you were about fifteen, I'd wager... not much older than the Pidge." Mr. Spike felt he had scored a palpable hit and perhaps he had for there was no immediate response.

Miss Dawn sensed weakness and relaunched her attack. "Please, Giles. I'm old enough. Buf - there's been weapons around the house forever. I know enough to be careful."

"No. I'm sorry..." Mr. Giles repolished his lenses and gazed into the distance for a moment as though searching for words. Then he stared at Miss Dawn, and the steel glinting in his eyes told her that he was about to speak his final word on the subject. "If... If Spike can prove he came by the crossbow through legal means then I'll keep it with the other weapons. Willow has a point about the strength required. I'll give you a set of exercises designed to strengthen the proper muscles and when you are able to load it easily, I'll begin giving you lessons. You are not to touch the weapon unless one of us adults are present - Spike is excluded from that company in spite of his age."

Miss Dawn was far from satisfied but with one of her sudden ascents to a mature outlook she accepted the inevitable. "Fine. Let's get back to dinner before it's cold. Come on, Spike."

Miss MacClay spoke with the hesitation that was her nature when with a crowd of people. "Grab a plate. There's no place set." She chewed on her lip. "I... I didn't know you were coming."

"S'all right. Didn't know it myself until today. Should be on my way anyhow. Just dropped by to do the birthday thing." Mr. Spike's tone was courtly but he was rapidly running scenarios through his head. How could he prevent Mr. Giles from finding out he hadn't got the bow 'by legal means'.

Miss Dawn moved to block his escape. "I had Tara make the tacos extra, extra spicy. I know you like them that way." She sensed that he was poised to flee and she amped up the wattage in her eyes. "Please."

Mr. Spike was reeled in like a gasping fish and the group passed through the doorway into the dining room.

Miss Kitty was not pleased. Her rights as Queen of the Summers' household had been usurped - she should have been treated to tasty morsels from every dish and allowed to examine each plate to make certain she was missing out on nothing. Instead, she had been forced to flee from the barbarous bristling and posturing of human - and inhuman - males. Such behavior was simply too crude for her to endure. Her tail twitched and she expelled huffs of indignation from deep within her chest.

Her disappointment was soon assuaged however by the whiff of a most heavenly scent, and tacos were quickly forgotten. This was the most fragrant of perfume, an odor worth rolling in and Miss Kitty was determined to discover the source. Her nose led and she followed eagerly, her tail twitching a totally different language now.

She lowered herself, crouching till her belly scraped against the ground and froze. The tantalizing aroma was emanating from the bushes but so was the scent of something cat, yet not-cat. She was infuriated to think that another creature was already covering itself with that enticing fragrance and she yearned to attack.

Miss Kitty Fantastico was a cat born and bred on the Hellmouth, however, and the fact that she still lived was testimony to her wisdom. She wiggled herself into a position, comfortable but easily transformed to one of attack or flight and began to consider her options.

TBC...


	15. Chapter 15

**Chapter 15**

We now come to the crux of this tale, the meat and the heart of it, where all the elements are in place, the characters juxtaposed, and motivations, both petty and noble, aspire to give birth to their desire.

The events about to unfold are not events of grand passion but of love twisted by everyday, petty concerns. They are neither earth-shaking, nor apocalyptic, merely painful. Yet Mr. Spike and Miss Dawn both emerge from them changed, not to the eyes of the world, but to themselves. Both will ever look back upon these events with a pang, a sour twist to the stomach.

In the end, consequences are consequences and does it matter whether the cause is a bad vampire, seeking to rise above his own limitations, or good humans having lost sight of their moral compass, who fall below their own expectations? Does it matter that all involved were at fault or that none meant harm? Does it matter that Miss Dawn acted through motivations born as much from teenage angst as from reaction to the tragedies in her life, or that the adults in this story acted with love for Miss Dawn but allowed baser instincts to guide their actions?

Miss Kitty Fantastico, with whom we opened this tale, is perhaps the only true innocent involved in this denouement and as such, while the only one physically scarred, is the one least wounded. It is only mete that we begin the chapter with her presence.

There is a predator lurking within every cat, no matter how fat and loving they may be whilst cuddled upon your lap and purring. Any cat born on the Hellmouth learned to hone their hunting skills, if only to better understand the demons that pursued them.

Miss Kitty Fantastico was no exception. As a cat in the household of the Slayer, she was a particular prize to many and her continued existence was testimony to cunning and common sense.

She had divined that the heavenly aroma ascended from the small bag lodged between the porch step and the bushes. The magicks placed upon the kitten's body confused her and she believed the kitten still lived.

Visions of the other cat marched through her head, and she watched it rolling upon the burlap, purring and glutting itself on the treasures that were tantalizing her even now. She imagined it sleeping, gorged on moldy meats and replete from its feast. If she had come upon this bag elsewhere she would have passed it by no matter the enticement, but now it was here - in her territory – and it was hers.

Even a Hellmouth-raised cat could only endure so much. That intruder was on her property, invading her garden and had obviously eaten booty that belonged to her. Miss Kitty flowed forward, her primitive feral gaze a match for the most potent of modern lasers. Alert for the slightest movement she advanced until she touched her nose to the burlap bag that shrouded the kitten's body.

Driven to near madness by the combined scents of rotten meats and territorial imperative Miss Kitty took unwarranted action and she grasped the bag and pulled.

Dinner passed by pleasantly enough. Miss Dawn, as befitted one who is fifteen, bounced in her seat, pouted with princessly hauteur, and presided over the table in a polite and mature manner. The adults, among whom we do not include Mr. Spike despite his age, were dizzy within moments.

She was elated at her power.

For once, her adults did not flee as she whipped through her alternate teenage identities but rather smiled tenderly at her bounces, attempted to coax her out of her pouts and resided quite nicely as she presided.

Mr. Spike, of course, bounced, pouted and preened right along with her, throwing in a snarl and occasional sneer. He was in every way her peer, and a stranger observing their interaction, would have no doubt judged Mr. Spike to be her fond and somewhat immature older brother. In many ways, and in the only ways that truly count, such an observer would have been correct.

What they would not have realized was that Mr. Spike was like a mature cat reverting briefly to kitten behavior. He was a deadly predator being playful while Miss Dawn was a young girl growing into herself. He could swap between play and predation at will while she was at the mercy of hormones and her own inexperience.

The three men, in honor of the occasion, limited their arguments to the slightest of jabs and jibes, well-laced with humor, if not good humor. Perhaps their stares were inclined to become glares but Miss Rosenberg and Miss MacClay were quick to detect and deflect any hostilities.

Whether it was good company, good food or the feeling that his duties were nearly discharged, Mr. Spike became increasingly buoyant. His natural optimism began to overcome worry. The more time that passed before Mr. Giles pressed him for proof of purchase, the more he felt he could conjure up a story that would explain the crossbow. He began to think he had worried too much.

If nothing else, he could bully Clem into lying for him. Who could doubt Clem?

He relaxed into the warmth of Miss Dawn's happiness and put aside grief, worry and thoughts of his further duties for the evening. He looked at her smiling face and smiled in return.

This was Dawn's time.

Cats can be patient but this does not mean their temper is not tried. Miss Kitty was decidedly disgruntled. Her tail twitched in stiff little jerks and fur stood up along the ridge of her back.

The kitten fought back, at least to Miss Kitty's feline way of thinking. In fact, the bag had caught upon a sharp branch, which pierced the bag and released new gusts of brilliantly rotten odor. She considered this a taunt and she reacted with rage, rending and reaving and ripping the bag free of hindrance. The bag tore and the cans clattered and Miss Kitty had her prize.

The piquant reek of rancid fish and fowl permeated the bag and the taste exploded against her tongue. She considered rolling and perfuming herself with this most excellent perfume but she knew all manner of menacing beasts would be attracted to such plunder as this. The kitten was still present if strangely quiescent. It must be dealt with and the treasure taken to a safe haven.

She grasped the bag firmly in her teeth and scuttled backwards as fast as she could go, whipping her head and bouncing the bag as she went. Her efforts were rewarded. The great rip in the bag widened and the kitten's head was born from within the burlap.

Despite the peace that held sway over dinner, rancor arose as presents were opened. Somewhat sleepy from the meal and perhaps a bit stressed from keeping up with Miss Dawn, the Scoobies males became increasingly aggressive in manner. As the group moved to the living room, Mr. Harris and Mr. Giles moved into a flanking formation, herding the females before them and separating them from Mr. Spike. They claimed the seating nearest Miss Dawn and carefully aimed the ladies at surrounding seats. As usual Mr. Spike was left to haunt the outskirts of their carefully formed herd.

It is difficult to say whether such behavior was planned or even conscious. Mr. Spike was a vampire and both Mr. Harris and Mr. Giles devoted much of their energies to fighting vampires. They had in the past, fought Mr. Spike, in fear for their lives. His presence pulled at their innermost protective instincts.

The present opening ceremony began and as each ill-chosen present was unwrapped, and Miss Dawn's depression was deepened so too was the tension between the males. Miss Maclay's wise and perfect present brought a moment's respite that was totally overturned by Mr. Harris' doll, more suited to an eight year old than one of fifteen.

An ill-timed quip garnered a curt reply whose response required a raised voice and all three males were locked into brutal argument. It little matters what was said. It had all been said before and would surely be said again.

Do not be fooled into thinking Mr. Spike a hapless victim in these proceedings by any means. Refreshed and rested, restored to some semblance of his natural state of snark, Mr. Spike was beginning to feel more himself. One of a predator's greatest joys is circling the herd, snapping at heels, feeling the flock tremble at his pretend attack.

Miss Dawn could have stopped Mr. Spike, ended the quarrel at any moment. Her pleas to Mr. Giles or Mr. Harris might have gone unheard and unheeded but Mr. Spike would have come to heel at her merest frown. She was the female he sought to impress.

She was not unaware of this and so she also must bear some blame. Although none of the males in question was interested in the young Miss Dawn in a sexual way, she was incontestably the prize over which they fought this night. A young fifteen year old could not help but feel heady with such power. She knew in her heart that any prize would have been as hotly defended but she allowed herself the warmth of feeling wanted.

Rather than rein Mr. Spike in, she relished his championship and threw him glances of bright-eyed adoration. Mr. Spike felt a rush of pride at each such glance and was further resolved to slay her dragons, metaphorically speaking.

The other Scoobie females were also aware of the dynamics swirling around them. They had long ago learned to let the males bellow and strut and puff out their cheeks in red-faced display. Unless the interaction threatened to intensify into physical violence they stayed seated, calm, and watched the show with an even mixture of irritation and titillation. Their sly smiles and flashes of admiration at a deft comment, their frowns and glances of approbation were fuel and encouragement to the men.

A reasoned argument from the ladies or the threat of leaving could also have stopped the sniping and the slings, but the ladies were as lost as the gentlemen. Though they preferred peace, they also found release in seeing a representative of their common enemy being brought down.

This was a scene oft-played during the summer of Miss Buffy's death. Fashioned into an ill-formed party of heroes, struggling to perform the duties for which a Slayer was bred and born, all of these people, vampire and human alike, were stretched and beaten into a twisted semblance of themselves. They ran on fumes - on fuel comprised of sheer will and stress. Ill-humor and dislike took second place to the necessities of fighting on the Hellmouth but with the least relaxation, the lifting of life-threatening forces and all the resentment and fear and petty hate came tumbling forth. The aggression to which they had become accustomed in their fights remained, while the restraint was removed.

It was not surprising the subject turned to the crossbow. Mr. Spike may have thought he was given a reprieve but in truth Mr. Giles had already determined the course of events. It did not matter that he was correct in his assessment – Mr. Spike could have done little to change his mind even had he been able to prove the crossbow was gained by legal and approved methods.

So too was Mr. Harris confirmed in his conclusions. The crossbow was grist to his mill, merely another means of keeping this vampire, who was needed but not wanted, in his place. Another excuse to allow himself to release the aggression that was increasingly difficult to keep bottled up.

"Anyone with a brain would know you don't get a fifteen year old a crossbow designed to bring down a bear but then – living dead, brain dead – same thing, isn't it?"

"That would still be more brain matter than you've got, Harris. Anyone with half a brain would know you don't get a fifteen year old a walkie-talkie doll with eyes that open and close. And it would take a crossbow designed to stop a bear to take down most of the demons round here. Course, if Bit threw the dolly at one, it might bust a gut laughin' but I wouldn't depend on it."

Mr. Harris flushed. Mr. Spike had scored a palpable hit. He had noticed the eye-roll that Miss Dawn had quickly hidden and replaced with a patent leather smile. "That doll's a collectable. It'll be worth something some day. Anya says…"

"Anya isn't even here! That's how much she cares."

"She had that neighborhood business meeting thingie… she'll be here as soon as… that's not the point! That crossbow won't be any more use than the doll because Dawn won't be able to use it. She'd probably ruin her back trying to set it or… or shoot herself in the foot or something!"

Mr. Spike registered Miss Dawn's look upon hearing this statement. "Well, don't you have a high opinion of our girl? Modern crossbow like that—s'more technique than brute strength. Dawn's got a good head on her shoulders…"

Miss Rosenberg could not allow this to pass. "Spike, technique only does so much. Strength's important too… and… well, size does count. Crossbows are dangerous. Dawn could lose a finger!"

Mr. Spike and Miss Dawn gave matching sighs at this overstatement and rolled their eyes.

"She's fifteen not four…"

"And I'm right here! You're all talking about me like I'm not even here!" Miss Dawn stood, pushing aside her gifts. Her gaze panned across the Scoobies. "None of you see me! Spike's the only one who does. You all act like I'm a baby!"

Miss Dawn did not help her case in this wise. Her voice was pitched to hysteria, her face flushed and she barely looked her fifteen years.

Mr. Giles pursed his lips, and spoke, the very voice of aged, learned reason. "Dawn, this really isn't the point. You and I both know that Spike stole this crossbow or got it from someone who did. Even if Xander and Willow were wrong in their assessments — and they are not — it wouldn't matter. We shall make an attempt to find the rightful owner. I suspect if I look through the paper a few days back, I shall see something about robbery at one of the local…"

"Why not give the Bit a chance to prove she can handle the crossbow? Let her try nocking it while all you learned professionals are present and see what she's made of?" Mr. Spike should have been ashamed of himself in this moment for he was, in essence, siccing Miss Dawn onto Mr. Giles. He knew full well how she would react to this challenge and hoped to turn the conversation away from talk of robbery.

"That would work! I can show you. I know I can do it. I've been watching all of you for years."

"Dawn, that isn't the point."

"It's the only point, Ru-pert. Dawn can either handle the thing or she can't. If she can then you got no right to deny her the protection…"

"ENOUGH!" Mr. Giles shed his watcher persona and allowed Ripper full rein, not a thing he did lightly but reason had become wearisome and Ripper took far more enjoyment out of strife and chaos. It was a complete and certain sign that the Watcher was at the edge of exhaustion and sanity. "We've already covered this ground and I'm not about to go around in circles. Spike, I think it's time for you to go." His stance and glance and smile made it clear he hoped Spike would not go.

There was silence. Even the Scoobies tread lightly when Ripper was on the prowl. Even Miss Dawn knew that her tantrums would only bring savage sneers and cruel remarks. Even Mr. Spike knew that his very life was in danger — Mr. Giles was human and Mr. Spike could not fight him. Ripper was quite capable of following through on threat.

Mr. Spike's jaws clenched tight and the muscles twitched from the tension. Normally, he would have pushed despite the real danger, unable to give in without some snark to let one and all know that he wasn't afraid, even though he was a bit. Tonight, he was sensible that it was Miss Dawn's birthday and he didn't want her to remember it as the night that Ripper dusted her best friend. He was also aware that he needed to leave soon anyway. His appointment with the Bastets beckoned and it was time he headed for it.

"Happy Birthday, Niblet." With a nod of his head, Mr. Spike made to go.

Normally, Mr. Spike would have gone back through the kitchen but at this moment Miss Jenkins made her arrival and the Scoobies seized upon her as a means to dispel the thunderheads of tension that pervaded the room.

As one the adults gathered round her, to her surprise and gratitude, welcoming her and making much of the fact that she brought yet another gift. Ripper melted away, and Mr. Harris also allowed his better nature to emerge. They neither noticed Mr. Spike exiting through the front door or Miss Dawn sliding into the kitchen.

Miss Kitty was enjoying all the benefits of heaven.

The kitten lay still a few feet away and Miss Kitty was bathing in the most perfect perfume. The intense taste of total rottenness gushed against her tongue as she lapped at the bits clinging to the cans and the rough burlap massaged her gums as she chewed on the bag.

She didn't understand why the kitten fought no further to protect such bounty but she didn't care. It was hers and life was good.

It was a sign of Miss Dawn's immaturity that she ignored Mr. Giles' argument concerning the crossbow's questionable provenance and she thought only of Mr. Spike's challenge. She knew Spike was right — she could handle the crossbow. It was a sign of her maturity that she could harness what she had seen over the years, could remember and analyze and reason through memories and apply them to her situation. She saw, she assessed and she acted.

The crossbow lay upon the table – unwisely - given the wide open door next to it. Miss Dawn approached and swiftly scanned the architecture of the bow. It was very similar to others she had seen. She identified the trigger and the safety. Mr. Spike had strung the bow earlier, fondly imagining that his Bit would want to try out her gift.

Miss Dawn did not have Slayer strength but she was formed from the Slayer. She was never given formal training but had emulated her sister's exercises, clumsily but with some success. She had, over recent months lived a life of uncertainty and violent action and had learned to use every bit of strength she had, to use her mind where strength failed and to push past the point where another adult, let alone another child, would have given up.

In short, Miss Dawn accurately positioned the crossbow with an aplomb that would have befitted a seasoned professional. She placed the cocking stirrup on the ground, placed one foot in the stirrup and steadied the stock end of the crossbow against her thigh. She pulled the string into place with a strength born of desperate desire and unfathomed fear and a deep determination to prove herself. She pulled evenly and she used her arms and her back and every muscle she had. It was not so very long before she heard the click that let her know the string was securely in the trigger mechanism. She slid a bolt into place and admired her handiwork.

A complete and absolute sense of accomplishment washed away the ache in her shoulders and lower back, a feeling of empowerment and maturity suffused her very being as she looked upon her work and knew that she had made manifest the truth of Mr. Spike's words. He had believed in her and she had proven his belief was warranted.

"Now, were the devil did Dawn get to?"

Mr. Giles' voice, his question at her absence snapped something inside her, and her sense of fulfillment was gone on the moment. The memory of Ripper and that _other_ argument, the knowledge she had disobeyed an adult, all combined and crashed upon her and she was little Dawnie and she was panicked. She couldn't allow Giles to see that she had been playing with the crossbow.

You have probably already seen the flaw in Miss Dawn's knowledge. In all her years as the younger Slayer's sister, she had seen the Scoobies making ready for battle, seen them gather and arm themselves, knew how to load and set up all manner of weapons. Too, she had seen them come back, weary and worn, with weapons emptied and watched them clean and repair and put the weapons back in their place. On occasion she had even been allowed to help with this. But at no time, whether in battle or training, had Miss Dawn been allowed to see those weapons discharge. She had been left at home, or surrounded and made safe whenever any action took place.

For all her familiarity with the use and care of weapons, Miss Dawn had no real conception of their power. As with the notion of adulthood itself, she only dreamed of the benefits to be accrued and had the hazy idea that she would be safe if she were grown-up and allowed to use weapons.

She knew that the best way to unload a crossbow was to discharge it, but she didn't understand the mechanics of a discharged bolt. She didn't visualize a bolt as something that rended flesh and tore through muscle and bone. She hadn't considered the responsibility that was hers from the moment she laid hands upon a weapon.

The only thought in her mind when she loosed the bolt was that the bow be empty and back on the table by the time Mr. Giles entered the room. If she thought at all where the bolt might land, it was to think that she could sneak out later and take it off the porch and hide it. She never believed the bolt could fly through the open door and slice through the air well past the porch. She never considered that a living being might be outside and within the path the bolt would take. She never meant to hurt anything – especially her beloved Miss Kitty Fantastico.

Have you ever heard a cat scream? It is an unearthly, drilling sound that claws into your brain, more felt than heard. It scratches down into your nerves, drawing shudders from your muscles and causing goosebumps to bead across your skin.

Miss Kitty's tail was dancing in delight, arched high over her back in playful pride and it was very nearly removed as the bolt scraped along the middle of her back, removing fur and skin and flesh and spraying blood across the yard.

Miss Dawn was unaware that it was Miss Kitty that was wounded. She only felt that horrible screeching wail scrabbling into her brain and knew that her bolt had found a mark. She was immediately convinced she had killed someone and her own scream hit a high note remarkable even for Miss Dawn.

Mr. Spike was still at the front of the house, having paused to slaughter an innocent wheelbarrow, when he smelled the blood and heard the screams. Somewhere in his mind the scent told him Miss Dawn wasn't bleeding but he only registered 'blood' and 'Dawn' and it was a testimony to his fear and vampire speed that he arrived in the back yard moments before the Scoobies made it through the kitchen door.

He understood all, almost immediately. His night vision plainly showed the kitten's body, the ripped bag, and the spent bolt lying a few feet away. He recognized the scent of Miss Kitty's blood and the extent of it and knew that she was not dead but that she had run off into the night. He was confident of his ability to track her down and bring her home safe and sound.

He realized that Miss Dawn had tried out the crossbow and he was proud of her accomplishment.

It was testimony to his inability to fully understand human sentiment that he underrated the level of Miss Dawn's distress. He could hear her sobbing but believed once he explained that Miss Kitty still lived the upset would be over. Usually perceptive to Miss Dawn's every mood and desire, he was still a vampire and just could not perceive the horror behind believing you had killed something.

He entered the house, a smile of mingled sympathy and pride for his Bit upon his face and looked benevolently upon the humans huddled around Miss Dawn, who were still trying to understand her choked and garbled explanation. They had discerned that the crossbow was involved in her upset and if the white heat of anger were more closely related to sunlight, Mr. Spike would have been ash decorating the doorway.

"Bit, s'all right…" Mr. Spike's explanation was allowed to proceed no further. Miss Dawn threw off the helpful hands of her adults and threw out her own, finger pointed in an arc as deadly as any arrow, straight through Mr. Spike's heart.

"This is your fault! You should never have given me that crossbow. I hate you. I hate you!" And with that little Dawnie turned and ran to security of her bedroom, leaving the irate adults to glare at Mr. Spike.

He did not care about their looks. Their looks meant nothing to him, especially after the shock of Miss Dawn's utterance. He was already backing off the porch. How had this happened? He had already forgiven the Bit for her words – in truth, it did not even occur that there was anything to be forgiven. He did not care that Miss Dawn was seeking to evade her own culpability and throw all blame upon his shoulders – he felt that was just part of caring for her, that she not have to take responsibility.

And there was the thought bubbling in his brain beneath his anguish. It had not yet fully formulated; it was such an alien thought to his vampire processes. He was at fault. In part? In whole? He just could not exactly understand how. He just knew he had failed again. Failed the kitten, failed the Bit, failed Buffy. He was no good as a vampire, a miserable joke as a white hat – how had he ever thought he could amount to anything?

All the weariness of the past few days descended once again upon his shoulders, confusing his feet and tilting at his balance and he stumbled like one drunk.

Miss Rosenberg, coming out to deliver the threat of imminent frogdom should Spike darken their doorway again, was stilled by the abject misery that poured off of him. She watched silently as he picked up a still form, a cat that she assumed was Miss Kitty and it is possible that a few of the tears that slid down her face were for Mr. Spike.


	16. Chapter 16

_This story is dedicated to Moe H.O.S. His help has been invaluable._

_This chapter is dedicated to Louise and Shadow. _

**Chapter 16**

Mr. Spike stopped, staring blankly at a small picket fence, his breathing rough and ragged, a harsh inhalation and exhalation that was made loud by the silence of the night.

The still body of the kitten lay nestled in the crook of his arm and he was very nearly as still as that body.

The lifting and lowering of his chest was the only movement he made and time passed and it was the only movement he made.

Vampires need no oxygen to live, but it does perform many functions for them nonetheless, much in the same manner as it does with humans. But where a human takes in breath and expels a gaseous exhaust, creating an interchange of oxygen to carbon dioxide, a vampire absorbs into a dead body until what has been absorbed is just as dead. A vampire feeds nothing back to the atmosphere.

This is the way with vampires, the real horror of their existence in this world. They take from the earth, they take from life, and they make no return. For several months now, Mr. Spike had labored to overcome this most definite of vampiric traits and overturn it, to understand the concepts inherent to giving, and the effort tore and twisted at his psyche.

Despite his constant internal struggle, despite the many changes he had faced over the past few years, despite the fact that each change found him in a lower state than he was before, Mr. Spike labored and he remade himself. He always found new reason to make his unliving existence worthwhile. He was a survivor and it was his nature to find reasons to survive.

And this night, at this moment, he was as low as he had ever been since Miss Buffy's death. Mr. Spike was tired and he was lonely and he could not think what possible purpose he might have in the world.

He knew that Miss Dawn would forgive him, but would she ever again look at him with adoring eyes? Would she trust him? Believe in him? If he did not have her to care for what did he have?

His despair was balled in his belly as cold and hard as cement. His relationship with the Bit was broken and would have to be forged anew and he wasn't sure he was up to it. He had given his best, his utmost, everything he had and failed totally, utterly, miserably.

You might think him a weak thing to despair so because of the overwrought display of one so young, but it was not the substance of Miss Dawn's words or the events of that night that brought him to such despondency. The whole of his existence since Miss Drusilla left - the constant struggle to be what nature had not intended and the ever-pervading sorrow that had eaten at him since Miss Buffy died - everything had coalesced and compounded and now crushed him. The events surrounding Miss Dawn's birthday were but the frosting on his rotten cake.

He looked at the picket fence with its broken edges and considered the ease with which he could throw himself upon one and his thoughts, vicious and malicious and sorrowful, tumbled through his mind in jumbled order.

If he did it, if he threw himself upon a picket then good n' evil wouldn't matter, or life without Buffy or Dawn. He'd be a puff on the air, dust in the dirt and Dawn probably wouldn't even miss him. The Scoobies would, though. They'd miss him all right - next time they faced a vicious vamp or dangerous demon - wouldn't they, just. Might be worth dusting himself for that reason alone.

There was the pollywog though. He'd made a promise. See that through and the fence would still be there. At least he'd leave this world having done something right.

That was it then.

He'd go to Hell after the pollywog went to heaven.

He moved slowly at first then sped up. He'd dawdled and would be late if he didn't make good time now.

Mr. Spike was past his crisis if he'd cared to think of it. He'd found a reason to live and it would do for now until he found something else.

The ritual circle was etched into the ground, bisected by two stacks of pitted stone, trisected by tall wooden totems. Dustings of earth - clays and sands and soils - were scattered in careful detail, in and around the circle. Splotches of bright color, sunshine yellow and sky blue, were splashed in seemingly random design but Mr. Spike knew it wasn't. Dark clouds stood out against the moon, though the sky was clear elsewhere.

Power. Mr. Spike could feel it buzzing through his feet. Earth, Wind, Sky. No water. He knew the water was in the blood. Someone was going to bleed tonight.

The Bastet priests loomed tall. Their moon-cast shadows skimmed along the ground, dark spectral limbs that clutched in his direction and when he realized that he was attempting to keep his feet clear of them, he then made certain to stomp directly upon them.

Twitching tails and toothful grimaces made it clear that the priests were not happy. Mr. Spike was unsure whether they were peeved with his late arrival or because he was treading on their shadow. Both he supposed. He didn't really care.

He was too weary to care.

He shoved the kitten's body at the nearest priest with more rudeness than was truly meant, and he turned to leave without speaking a word. He was done.

He almost didn't recognize the sound at first. The priest was ancient and the voice grated against Mr. Spike's ear like the creaking of an old house. "Why do you leave? Your presence is necessary."

Mr. Spike hadn't expected this or rather he had and had allowed himself to ignore the possibility. He could hear the clarion call of beer and booze and blood. The Fish Tank should be restocked and he'd be glad to kill any demon that tried to deny him access to the tavern. He did not feel as though he had anything left to give. "I've turned her over, seen her through this part of the journey like, so she's all yours now. Got other things to attend to."

"Your presence is required. The kitten chose you and she will not leave this plane for another until she has taken her leave. She'll wait at the gates and the time will pass. It is almost too late now. You were later than expected."

Although he rolled his eyes and sighed, there was something within Mr. Spike that was gladdened by these words. Somebody loved him enough that she would miss her chance at heaven.

"Stupid cat. Too bloody stupid to get out of the pain."

But his step was lighter and when the Bastet placed the kitten back in his arms, Mr. Spike rubbed his fingers across the pollywog's ear.

"Take your place within the circle." An out-thrust arm pointed to the ornate stone altar, carved with a complex configuration of runnels, set close to the ground, but raised above it. A knife, ornately hilted and blade stained, lay desolate at its center. Mr. Spike had enough knowledge of magicks and he made his assumptions, looked at the priest and though he did not ask, the question was in his eyes.

Me? I'm the one to bleed? My blood's dead.

The priest understood his reluctance. "The magicks that animate you will be enough. She is a small being and innocent and her admittance will not require much. You are the one she chose."

A weary smile curved on Mr. Spike's lips. That was innocent, all right. Though, they were both predators, him and the kitten. Maybe he wasn't the most unexpected choice she could have made.

There was resistance as he stepped over the line of power that circled the circle of power.

Winds whipped at him, a distant drone drilled into his ears and the air about him distorted. The stone seemed but a short distance away yet he seemed to walk forever and his feet collided with the altar before he realized he had arrived. Lightning flashes snapped at the edges of his vision, short sharp snaps that buzzed, blistering the circle with blinding intensity, burning the air.

He knelt, using his hands to feel for the surface, and placed the kitten upon the altar. He looked up for instruction but could see no sign of the priests.

A dense gray atmosphere laid siege to the circle, dark gray clouds surrounding darker, the occasional sparklers of lightning throwing images onto his retinas and after each flash he was uncertain of what he had seen. Faces? Clouds? Nothing?

Was up to him then. He reckoned this part was between him and the pollywog. Probably didn't matter much on his end as long as there was blood. The priests would do the rest.

He took up the knife and laid the blade along his palm but stopped and thought for a moment. Sheepishly he looked up again and wondered if the priests could see him. He didn't want anyone seeing what he was going to do. Finally, he shrugged and proceeded.

Lifting up his shirt and gritting his teeth, he placed the point of the blade upon his breast and rammed his fist against the hilt, shoving with all his strength until he heard the crackling of breaking bone. Still he continued with steady hand until he felt his heart split to give the blade access. He cried out from the pain and now his hand shook but he twisted the knife and twisted once more and twisted again to be sure - then pulled it free. Heart's blood sprayed out over the body of the kitten.

He felt like a fool. A killer vamp bleeding his heart out for a kitten. Was ridiculous - but his blood was dead. He was going to give the best of it then, wasn't he, make sure it worked. The pollywog wasn't going to be denied its path to heaven because his blood wasn't good enough.

Dizzied from the pain, he fell forward and threw his hands out, bloodstained palms leaving prints upon the stone. That was fitting. Hands and heart and ... head? Well, a little unmixed water never hurt, did it?

Mr. Spike let his tears fall. He hadn't realized that the aching of his eyes was as much the result of unshed tears as weariness, but now undammed, they cascaded forth in a torrent and his body shook. He knew these weren't for the kitten. He was crying for himself - something he had never done before, had never thought to do, hadn't thought himself capable. Salt tears mingled with blood spray and hissed against the stone. A streamer steamed forth from each tear and whispered into the air. The streams wove themselves into a wall, surrounded him, enfolded him, protected him from the winds and he found himself encased in a world of white silence.

A small object popped into vision, just seen from the corner of his eye. The kitten? He looked to see if the body was still on the altar but the altar was gone. Only himself and white and the kit...

He remembered stumbling across the kitten in the graveyard. Her wide-eyed wonder as she gazed upon Clem, her tiny teeth tickling his toes, the rough kisses she gave Dawn and...

the deep well of Dawn's eyes,  
that sudden glimpse of serenity,  
Mau's world of wonder whispering  
and suddenly ...

Soft waves of honeyed heat coated him like cloth. And he entered heaven.

Or one of the many heavenly dimensions that populate the universe. For each heaven a Hell, for each Hell a heaven and whether either is just a beginning or an end is beyond our ken.

And it was beyond Mr. Spike's ability to understand. The human organism, even one converted to the vampiric, has no capability no words no concepts upon which to construct such understanding. The brain itself cannot encompass the architecture upon which the vaults of heaven are built.

His mind made the attempt to identify - it relearned color, the scent, the taste, the feel of it. Sound had color, he knew that now. Sight had sound and he could feel BLUE sliding across his skin like silk. He tasted his tears and they were cherries, and his tongue swept along teeth scented like desert sand.

And Glory Hallelujah! There be angels here - fronds of angel-feathered wings whispered all around him, beautiful beings singing silver song and spinning sugar and chocolate.

And Mr. Spike knew - these were all lies. His mind could not understand the truth of it and it lied to him. As beautiful as it seemed, felt, tasted - it was more beautiful still and he would never comprehend its true glory. But even his pastel imitation, the pale result of his limitations left his body chorused with infusions of joy. This was every blissful moment ever experienced in all his long life. The first time his mother called him her Brave Little Man. Buffy's first kiss - the only kiss she'd given him. Each and every adoring glance from the Bit. Drusilla's bite, the hunt the hunt the hunt.

He knew what rhymed with effulgent.

And he became aware of pain. His mind was burning, a slow steady burn banking in the back of his mind, flickering at the edges, using his very essence as the fuel for the flame. He was not of this place and all his energies, his magicks his spirit, the physical force of his body were being consumed so that he could remain. He had forgotten the element of fire. He knew he'd have to bleed but he hadn't realized that someone would have to burn. His time here was a gift and would only last so long as he could look upon it and he refused to look away.

His body melted with the heat but pain was a tiny thing compared to such joy and he was used to pain.

A small wet thing, cool and comforting, licked at the flame and left it quenched in small places. It was soft and sweet with tiny teeth and it tickled.

Mr. Spike knew it was the kitten by the jungle green luminosity. He felt her nudging at his mind in the very manner that she had once rumbled against his chin. When she would place her wet, cold nose to his skin, and sweep the length of her head, matching cheek to cheek until she marked him with the musk that lay under her ear and rested her head there against his jaw, the warm veins beneath her skin throbbing against his.

She spoke to him in this place, where on Earth she could only imply through action and she spoke of love, fierce and sweet. She offered him forever - she offered to return with him, to return to the drudge and drear.

And here she knew - in this place she knew - the consequence, had tasted the joy and sweep and breadth of heaven but knowing that she could not come again should she depart, still she would return to Earth and gladly, that he not be alone.

His heart swelled, though it crackled and burned. What a thing it was to be loved!

"God no, little one. Go on. Bled for you, didn't I, so you could come here? That'll be my comfort, knowing I got you to a better place. You go on now. Want to see you go."

So the kitten left, sadness a dark streak in the bright.

Mr. Spike watched, and his mind made its images, its pale imitations, pastel portraits of beauty unbelievable and in his mind, golden gates swung wide and his pollywog entered, light-footed and joyful. The dark streak faded as golden surges of love kissed her and consumed her and he could see the thread that bound her to all the universe, all the living universe.

And he realized this was the soul, the thread, the connection. The living thread that vampires lacked - that he lacked - and at last he looked away, blinded by the tears that flowed like burning lava from his eyes.

He awakened in Hell. Was this Hell? It must be Hell. The weight crushed him, smashed him, forced itself past his lips into his lungs and the air scoured at his skin. His memory... his mind could not remember! He'd been cast out of heaven, thrown past the Earth right into Hell. It must be or else he'd remember. Surely he'd remember what he'd seen.

But the harsh, blaring light faded and his body bounded back into the folds and protrusions placed upon him by gravity and he became used to the oxygen that forced itself into his lungs like water flowing. He closed his eyes and opened them and recognized the Earth, his Earth, his dimension and its memories were rapidly replacing those from Heaven. He had only the memory of remembering. He was kneeling on the ground, he felt naked though he was fully clothed, and he shivered from his own lack of warmth.

He almost didn't recognize the sound at first. The priest was ancient and the voice grated against Mr. Spike's ear like the creaking of an old house. "You saw? You saw the Glory?"

The priest threw down his staff and tottered stiff-legged toward Mr. Spike.

"Three hundred years I have served. Fifteen souls have I escorted to the embrace of Mau and not once... not once... have I been allowed the slightest glimpse. And you... you... foul abomination that you are... you have seen!"

Mr. Spike couldn't speak for the sorrow that choked his voice. You git! You've never seen but someday you'll go there! Someday you'll be there, thread all tied up and tidy and I - never - will! Even as he thought this the memories were seeping from his mind, sifting through bone and the pores of his skin like grains of sand.

All he had were memories of memories. Already he could barely remember what he was trying to remember. He wasn't going to be allowed to keep even that.

He couldn't remember... what?

Mr. Spike blinked at the priest and wondered at the strange feeling suffusing his mind. Sorrow and joy and... effulgence?

From the very moment he entered his crypt, had thrown himself upon the sarcophagus and had closed his eyes, Mr. Spike had slept like one dead. No doubt you feel this description is apt and so it is. Even vampires require sleep and even vampires are healed in their dreams, dealing with the doubts and dangers that can't be faced during waking hours.

Mr. Spike slept and his mind dealt with the learning and burning dealt out during his heavenly visitation. His brain renewed itself, moved synapses to different locations, mapped new pathways and grew new matter - not a normal activity for the vampire brain.

He slept like one dead but became something more. Not living, not much more than dead but where before Mr. Spike stretched himself, forced and warped himself into something he was not meant to be, he now had the capacity to grow.

Or not.

The choice would be his.

Two days passed and still Mr. Spike slept upon the sarcophagus and if Miss Dawn had not come to speak with him it is possible he would have slept for several more. Indeed his movements and thoughts were sluggish for many days to come and he wondered if he had been on a bender to end all benders. He wondered where the bottles had gone but didn't wonder much.

Miss Dawn knocked upon his door which was not her usual wont. She was unsure of her welcome, however and did not feel free to enter without leave. When long moments passed and her knock was not answered she felt herself torn between worry and doubt.

Was she unwanted, not welcome and Spike simply not answering the door? Or was he wounded, missing, ash upon the floor?

She was not insensible to the effect that her words must have had upon her hero. Miss Dawn was immature not unperceptive and as her forays into maturity increased she had become yet more aware of the power she had over the male populace and in particular Mr. Spike. It was not a purely sexual power, being more of a yin to a yang, and he had always been more susceptible than most men.

Once she had calmed, she had considered and she had concluded that she was in the wrong. It is doubtful that she would have apologized even so, save to Miss Maclay or Mr. Spike. She had hoped he would come visiting, meet her on her ground, giving her the advantage but when he had not, she knew she had to resolve the situation. Having made her decision, she made haste to put an end to their division.

When she pushed at the crypt door, she could tell it had not been securely closed, most unlike Mr. Spike and she hurried in. He lay still, sprawled upon the sarcophagus and the light that streamed through the crypt windows shone on pinpoint dust motes that danced over him like tiny angels.

She was struck with fear and struck with the full realization of how much he meant to her, how she would feel if he were gone and she rushed over to him, and ran a finger along his cheek lightly. She was afraid the merest touch might cause him to collapse into dust.

"Bit?"

Miss Dawn smiled and it was brighter than the sunlight shining over her head. Mr. Spike couldn't help but smile in return. He felt strangely happy if strangely muzzy.

Must have been a good brew he'd snaggled.

"Spike, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. It was my fault. I was so stupid. I don't know what..."

Mr. Spike took a moment to understand what Miss Dawn was talking about. He did remember the events of the night but they seemed a happening of long ago. He remembered... the Bit had killed Miss Kitty. Accidental like.

She had said that she hated him.

He sat up and swayed. It hurt. She'd said she hated him. What kind of love was that? He knew love. You didn't blame the person you loved... did you?

"I... I acted like a kid. I'm fifteen and I acted like a four year old." Miss Dawn stood stiffly and stared down at the dusty floor. "I've really thought about it... and Giles was right... "

"S'pose that has to happen sometime. Even to a tit like the Watcher." Mr. Spike snarled his response, feeling an unusual amount of dislike for Mr. Giles and gladly transferring his anger from Miss Dawn. He found it difficult to resist her stumbling words and downcast eyes and suddenly his irritation and hurt were gone. He fell in love with the Bit all over again.

Miss Dawn grinned. She knew she was forgiven now. She continued, however, and her words were weighty ones.

"True. But he was right. I wasn't ready for a crossbow... not because I'm not strong enough or smart enough. Because I'm not mature enough. I'm not ready for that kind of power because I don't have that kind of power inside me yet."

Now Miss Dawn's eyes flooded with tears. "I'm so frightened sometimes, Spike. Really, really scared. I know all of you want to take care of me, but you couldn't stop Glory and I was alone... I wanted something... wanted to believe I could protect myself... and then I just... damn it, I acted like a stupid little kid."

Mr. Spike ran his fingers along Miss Dawn's hair and swept it off her face. He caught one of her tears in its track and rubbed it in his fingers. His own throat was choked because he had just made a momentous realization of his own. Miss Dawn was going to change. Had changed. Was changing.

She wasn't a vampire. She was going to grow and change and she would still be his Bit, but she wouldn't be this Bit.

He was going to lose his child someday. Soon.

He sighed, dragging the breath into his lungs with a ragged inhalation. "Takes some doing, Bit. Growin'. Doesn't happen overnight... and lord knows, with all you've had to handle... can't expect your hormones to settle in nicely. Too much competition from the Hellmouth."

"Yeah, I suppose so. Does it have to hurt so much? 'Cause it really, really hurts."

"Reckon it does. Seem to remember something like that."

Miss Dawn laughed, a half-sob and she moved forward to lay her head against Mr. Spike's chest and he stroked her hair.

She was so precious. His thoughts were muddled but he could see something that he had been struggling to grasp for days now. Responsibility. The Pidge was growing and changing and there were so many ways she could change. He'd love her no matter what, but he wanted Dawn to be happy, to live a long and happy life and some choices were going to be better for that than others. And Buffy. She'd have wanted Dawn to grow up into someone that would make her proud.

Dawn wasn't going to be able to just do that, any old how. Was what the Scoobies, buggers all, were trying to see to in their half-assed way - teaching her right from wrong so she'd see how to go on. If he loved her, he couldn't afford to just let her do whatever made her happy 'cause it wouldn't keep her happy. His responsibility was to set her straight when she needed it, help her grow strong.

He let himself touch his head against hers, just for a moment, placing his nose to the silk of her hair, sliding his cheek lightly against it until his temple rested against hers and he could feel the warm veins pulsing against his own.

In truth, dear readers, our story should stop here at this bittersweet moment but this is a tale told about happenings upon the Hellmouth and most of you know the truth of the ending. Mr. Spike and Miss Dawn both learned hard-earned lessons that summer and should have been the stronger for them.

As it was, within weeks, Willow and Tara and Xander and Anya behaved with a childlike mixture of arrogance and innocence and brought Buffy back from the Dead and all things changed most bitterly and lessons learned were swept away in the holocaust of her resurrection.

**Epilogue**

We have said what we wished to say in this story. The things we thought important but we have not tied up all our threads. There are those still left dangling and no doubt, you, dear readers, wish to see where they lead.

Alas, we cannot tell you the fate of b'Huh, drugger of drinks and master of thieves.

He disappeared, faded into the mist of history, wealthy but whither he ended none can say. The occasional rumor surfaces of a cow-like Midas living high on the hog, or a desperate demon traveling from place to place, haunted by fear and ever vigilant for the flash of bone-white hair. Most prevalent are the tales of a lost treasure, hidden in the desert sands, where its owner died trying to reach the farthest reaches of the planet. None of these can be confirmed.

And what of Miss Kitty, with whom we opened this tale and with whom we shall end it?

She was not badly wounded by the dire bolt that bit into her back. She lost fur and flesh and blood but no great quantities of any of these vital elements. She was quite capable of locomotion and locomoted she did, running fiercely with no thought but to run and run to edges of the Earth, if necessary, until she was no longer a cat upon the Hellmouth.

This was a deed too much for even Miss Kitty and pain soon leached her energy and the lack of blood and the shock of her wound combined, leaving her weak and shaking and vulnerable.

In the sort of coincidence that often happens and more often happens upon a Hellmouth, a family of four, Mother, Father, sister and brother were also determined to leave the Hellmouth that day, for no other reason than they could see it was no place to stay.

They had packed their car, an older station wagon, heaped it full with boxes and baggage and old blankets and gone inside to eat their dinner. Little Louise left the tailgate hanging down not understanding about thieves and malicious persons and her parents were too harried to check.

It was a haven for our poor Miss Kitty.

With the last reserves of her energy, with the final fading strength of her muscles she leapt into the musty smelling car, and dug her way in, buried herself deep among the boxes and balled herself up into the blankets where it was warm and hidden and safe.

And so it was, the safest of places for her. The next morning our intrepid family piled into the car, and waved goodbye to Sunnydale and were halfway to Hoboken before they heard a faint, plaintive mew.

They pulled to the side to investigate and found a poor woebegone kitty, with weeping flesh and bloodstained fur and were horrified.

You will be pleased, dear readers, to know that this was a loving family, not rich in money, but rolling in love and they embraced this foundling as family upon the moment. They were not rich, and the money spent for the care of her wounds, meant smaller rooms and meager meals for their travel and they did not give that a moment's thought.

And as we informed you upon the very first page, they named their beloved pet Stripe for the thin scar that ran upon her back and along her tail - her sorrowful tail- and she lived for 20 years.

**_Happily ever after._**


End file.
